


In the Ripe and Ruin

by holonets



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Friends, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Kylo Ren Redemption, M/M, Memory Alteration, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Original Character(s), Not Canon Compliant, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Sparring, Undercover, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5606359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holonets/pseuds/holonets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke Skywalker knew Ben Solo was no longer Ben Solo for a time before the massacre of his students. Slowly, he began placing them under the care of trusted friends, wiping their memories and hoping beyond hope that they would be safe. Years later, he returns with Rey at his side, and their first task is to find his former padawans and train them alongside her.</p><p>Upon discovering Skywalker's plans, Kylo Ren seeks to make things difficult for him, and given the opportunity by Snoke, he finds himself at odds with a former friend... and new apprentice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arc I: Retrieval

_** ** _

_**NOTABLE CHARACTERS**_  
( _listed alphabetically_ )

 **Aggesh;** Crime lord and slaver (Hutt male)  
**Armitage Hux,**  General of the FIrst Order (human male)  
**Briayl Ren;** Knight of Ren (human female)  
**Bupvija (“Vee”);** Bartender (Twi’lek female)  
**Er-Dakk Vrinna;** Aggesh’s bodyguard (Weequay male)  
**Gilt Dreik;** Retired smuggler (Devaronian male)  
**Kylo Ren;** Master of the Knights of Ren (human male)  
**Lawjet Lockind;** Portmaster of Deucalon Spaceport (cyborg male)  
**R6-3PO,**  protocol droid  
**Rulva;** Spaceport employee (Mirialan female)  
**Snoke;** Supreme Leader of the First Order (??? male)  
**Tendra Rosado,** chief medical officer of the _Finalizer_ (human female)  
**Vander Syl;** Former padawan of Luke Skywalker (Hapan male)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I stated in the tags, this entire fic is very, very, VERY speculative and more than likely diverges from canon at the end of The Force Awakens. I plan on sticking as close to the information we've been given so far, but a lot of where it goes is my own doing, a sort of filler between TFA and TLJ. 
> 
> **Other ships will include:** Phasma x female OC.
> 
>  **Added 10 / 14 / 2017:** This fic will not be following the plot or timeline of TLJ. It isn't strictly canon-compliant.
> 
> I'll be adding tags and characters as I continue, and at the start of every arc, I'll post up a list of notable characters for that arc to make things easier, seeing as this fic will have a **lot** of original characters due to what I plan on covering.


	2. Chapter I: The Pull of the Force

Kylo Ren was not afraid.

Even without the aid of the massive holoprojector on Starkiller base, Snoke cut an intimidating form. Tall and lean, with weathered skin that clung to an oddly-shaped skull—everything about the Supreme Leader informed his viewer of the immense power he held, both in the Force and in the First Order. Overwhelming in a sense, and sinister in another.

But a hologram could only convey so much within the confines of a long-abandoned mining facility. Dust motes caught the light, occasionally sending filaments of pale blue in every direction. The low ceiling forced Snoke into a more humble shape, barely six feet as opposed to twenty-five. He sat in his grand chair, swathed in a dark cloak, and stared.

For minutes, he stared through the vastness of space, right into the eyes of his choice pupil, tongue rolling around in his mouth as he considered the young man's proposal.

“Nar Shaddaa,” Snoke began. His fingers curled at the arms of his chair, more bone than flesh. “You want to be given an opportunity to find someone on _Nar Shaddaa._ ”

He spat the words, and something inside of Kylo Ren sank.

“Yes, Supreme Leader. I—”

“There are no less than 80 billion individuals on the Smuggler's Moon.” His interruption carved the words from Ren's mouth, leaving the man silent. “How do you plan on finding them there? What are these _clues_ you've mentioned?”

Ren took an uneven step forward. His eagerness was not born of defiance or frustration. Anger at himself, perhaps, but the wash of negativity was never directed at Snoke. “There were notes on the map Skywalker left,” he said, gesturing towards the projected map behind him. A broad chunk remained unfinished as a reminder of his failures, while the rest glimmered with pinpricks of white and orange. “At first, we assumed they were possible locations for map pieces... or decoys, meant to be mistaken for Skywalker's location.”

“They were not,” Snoke finished needlessly. “As you discovered.”

“No, they were not.” Ren pressed his lips together and glanced over his shoulder. There were seven flickering orange lights, only seven, and now he knew what they meant. “A sympathizer on Corellia claims to have seen Skywalker and...” He paused, grimacing. “... And the _girl_ in Coronet City. They arrived together, alone, but they left with another, a young Zabrak male.”

A thoughtful noise filtered through the holoprojector, and upon turning around, Ren saw that Snoke had shifted forward on his seat, suddenly more interested in the incomplete map.

After a lengthy contemplative silence, Snoke rubbed a hand over his weak chin, and his eyes shifted in the direction of Kylo Ren, broad and bold and glittering black in the dim lighting. His voice, quieter than before, left him slowly. “Did you know him?”

Ren's lips parted in surprise. The inquiry was one he hadn't expected, but one he had an answer for. He looked from Snoke to the map and back again, hands curling impotently at his sides. “Yes, I believe I knew him.” He took another step forward, chin tilted upwards to meet the Supreme Leader's piercing stare. “I believe I knew them all, which is why I am asking you for permission to pursue them.”

“They are Luke Skywalker's padawans.” Snoke's hand fell away from his face, coming to rest closer to his body on a bed of bunched fabric. “They are the ones you did not kill.”

Again, the anger. Not at Snoke, but at himself.

“Yes,” he whispered barely loud enough for Snoke to hear.

“There is potential in your plan, provided you do not fail.” Ren's eyes snapped to Snoke's face to find his expression unreadable. “We could use these padawans to bolster our ranks... and weaken his.” The holoprojector hitched, causing the image of the Supreme Leader to flicker and spit. “Though I still cannot conceive of how you intend to find a single Force-user among so many billions of people.”

Kylo Ren smiled despite himself, a small, wicked twist of his mouth. “We already have a heading. While they are rumors...”

“Rumor is often inspired by fact.”  
  


* * *

  
Vander Syl was terrified.

But he wasn't late, which was his saving grace.

He arrived at Docking Bay 9 of Deucalon Spaceport with enough time to tug his uniform into position as he fell into line with his co-workers. Looking between them, he noticed the tight pull of their expressions, and worry shot through him. They were an unruly bunch of humans and near-humans, always chatting among themselves while they pretended to work. Either something was already wrong or something was going to be wrong within the hour.

A Mirialan woman, Rulva, stood beside him. Unlike the others, she seemed more concerned with keeping the hem of her uniform shirt twisted into a knot than whatever else was going on.

She was competent, but not enough to set her apart from everyone else. If they were scared, something was going on.

“What's up?” Vander nudged at Rulva's arm in a vie to get her attention. “Why's everybody look like they've seen the ghost of the Emperor?”

“They do?” She smiled to herself, playing at nonchalance while she tightened the knot a second time and adjusted the hem to show just the right amount of green stomach. “All I know is that we've got someone important docking here.”

Before he could reply, Vander was cut off by a loud: “Syl!”

“Yes, sir?”

“How long have you been an employee of the Deucalon Spaceport?”

Vander tapped his fingers one by one on his thighs as he counted out the years. He was twenty-seven, and his mother got the job for him around nineteen, so... “Eight years, sir.”

“And how long have you been under my command?”

Again, he counted. His fingers twitched anxiously, and an uneasy twist of his stomach almost made him lose the number in his head. “For... two... years?”

Lockind moved over to him with the efficiency and grace of a droid. He was a tall man, taller than anyone else he knew, with broad shoulders and face. Handsome, maybe, if you could get around the cybernetics that covered at least half of his features. Vander couldn't. Not when Lockind leaned in close and narrowed his eyes—one blue and the other red as a wound, accusingly, increasingly unamused with his subordinate.

“You don't sound sure.”

“Two years,” Vander repeated in a firmer tone, standing up straight. “I've been working under you for two years.”

“So you know how this works by now.” Lockind reared back, smoothing a cybernetic hand over his golden hair. “Or you should, if you're worth the credits we pay you.”

Something akin to dread coated the insides of Vander's stomach. He needed the way working at the Spaceport got him. He needed every single credit he earned off every single job. “I'm sorry for interrupting you, sir.” Vander chanced a smile. Usually, that got him places, even with Lockind.

Usually.

This time, Lockind gave him a simple, “Ugh,” and turned away, moving back to his place in front of them all. Apart from the worker droids and loader vehicles moving into position around the bay, they could've heard a pin drop.

Lockind's speech proceeded as usual. He reminded them of their individual tasks. Both Rulva and Vander were assigned to unloading whatever cargo the passengers might be carrying as punishment for the disruption. He liked working with droids, but she was less pleased with the result, glaring openly at Vander once she was certain Lockind wasn't watching them.

When the speech would have come to a natural close on any other day, this one didn't.

“Those tasked with the handling of the ship and its passengers should be on their best and most professional behavior,” Lockind told them. “We have details enough to know that our job here is important on a grander scale than any of us is accustomed to. The ship does not belong to a bounty hunter or a trader or even a Hutt. Misconduct will be punished, likely with termination.”

Everyone gathered nodded their understanding.

“Good!” Glancing down at the datapad in his arm, Lockind turned to face the rear of the docking bay. “Get to your stations. Immediately.”

The shielding dropped with a sonorous _thrum_ , letting in the noise and smell of Nar Shaddaa as well as an Upsilon-class transport shuttle. Whatever those employed to Deucalon Spaceport expected, what they got was a thousand times more surprising. Many stopped and stared as the ship descended gracefully, sleek and black and looking more keen on destruction than flight. Like a vorn tiger with wings.

Vander had a history with ships. His father was a retired smuggler, and parts of his old vessel decorated his _new_ cantina just off the Promenade. This ship was different from any he'd ever seen in action; it reminded him of the ships he'd seen in old holovids about the former Empire.

That's when he felt it—the terrible throb of _knowing_ in the center of his chest.

Rulva tugged at his sleeve, ushering him along in the direction of the worker droids, and Vander followed, wordlessly, thoughtlessly.

“Do you want to get fired?” she hissed at him with a wrinkle of her nose that caused her black facial tattoos to split into odd geometric shapes. “Because I'm thinking you want to get fired. You know Vee would _kill_ me if I let that happen.”

The ship touched down with a loud mechanical sound that filled the docking bay, and the shielding returned, a muted orange glow reflecting off the shiny black surface of the vessel. All around them, their fellows went this way and that, moved in a half-run towards whatever job they'd been given. A cluster of worker droids stood beside the ship at a respectful distance and waited for confirmation of their task.

Vander stood in the shadow of the ship's stabilizers and waited alongside them. At the front of the ship, a loading ramp extended before dropping to the ground. Footsteps followed just out of sight. Leaning as much as he could without taking too much of a chance, Vander strained to catch a glimpse of the passengers.

Just as soon as he caught a sliver of reflective white, Rulva turned to him from where she stood a few feet closer to the front of the ship and mouthed, “Stormtroopers.”

The confirmation hit him with a mixture of confusion and excitement. His brow furrowed, and he shook his head in disbelief. Why would there be stormtroopers on Nar Shaddaa? What did the First Order want with a bunch of smugglers and crime lords? Destroying Nar Shaddaa wouldn't win them any war.

In fact, they'd be doing the New Republic a favor.

His argument became something less than convincing the moment the first line of passengers reached the floor of the docking bay. Two figures in pristine white armor stood in front of Lockind, blaster rifles cradled in their arms. They moved around him in unison. The two groups of two that followed them did the same, and they stood opposite of each other, creating an impromptu path for the three individuals who followed.

One wore a suit of chromium armor, a thick cape draped over their shoulder. The second stood beside the first. She wore black formed armor and a cape of her own that skimmed the floor, dark hair tied away from her face in an elaborate, but severe braid. Behind them, the third made his way down the loading ramp with his attention focused solely on Lockind. He stood nearly as tall as the figure clad in chromium stormtrooper armor, and he was clothed in black, masked, and hooded.

Even with his view obstructed by the transport vessel, Vander knew him. Everyone in the docking bay knew him.

“Kylo Ren,” Rulva whispered as she moved closer to Vander's side, not taking her eyes off of the man's back. She lowered her voice even more when she turned around and looked to Vander, brows flat. “What's _he_ doing here?”

Without looking at her, Vander shrugged. The half-hearted gesture ended in drooped shoulders. “Could be anything.”

Lockind stood before Kylo Ren, limbs stiff and face shining with every ounce of pride he could muster. At a distance, Vander couldn't quite make out anything they were saying. Whatever transaction was coming to pass would continue to elude him, unless he could...

Eyes narrowing and jaw twitching, Vander focused. He focused and focused _hard_ , summoning as much will as he could manage in order to make out a word or two.

“An air taxi—” Lockind's words faded momentarily before a newfound clarity came upon him. “—Aggesh's barge whenever it pleases you.”

Vander sucked in a sharp breath just as Kylo Ren twisted his head in his direction.

Mask or no, everyone in the hangar knew who he was looking at.  
  


* * *

   
The pull of the Force was unmistakable.

Even the faintest of disturbances slid over Ren's skin, unwelcome. Being aware of your surroundings was a crucial lesson when it came to survival, and he knew everything there was to know about surviving.

The air around them hummed with the sounds of work. He imagined the air was kept cold for preservation's sake, but under the thick cortosis chestplate and heavy robes he wore, his skin warmed to a sickly flush, setting him ill-at-ease.

In all of a moment, he surmised that this attempt at manipulating the Force was nothing greater than an accident. That didn't dissuade him from looking, however.

Ren turned in the direction of the feeling and stopped just short of giving the portmaster his back.

At a distance, he could not make out the details of the man's face, but there was no mistaking that he was the point of origin. He was short for a humanoid, with dark hair and poor posture. More than that, Ren was unable to see through the mask and the yards between them.

The man went rigid, and the unpleasant feeling passed.

“Who is he?” Ren asked, his eyes still trained on the dockworker.

“Vander Syl, my lord.”

The name was unfamiliar to him. The man was likely nothing more than another untrained Force-sensitive, unaware of his own abilities. Turning back to Lockind, Ren allowed their conversation to continue unfettered by his own paranoia.

“There is nothing worth unloading aboard my vessel,” Ren told him.

In his peripheral vision, he could see Phasma looking over the docking bay, committing every nook and cranny to memory as she always did. Any place large enough to hide a Resistance fighter would be inspected. She rarely found anything, but Ren appreciated her thoroughness. On the other side stood Briayl Ren. Unlike Phasma, she stared straight forward and at nothing in particular as she waited for the discussion to end.

Lockind rapped his forefinger against the screen of his datapad. “You may leave immediately, if you wish.”

“I wish,” Ren replied, already bored of him.

To his credit, the portmaster turned and left without a word, well-aware of his place. He walked through the path of stormtroopers with a forced confidence, grasping one of his workers by the elbow and leading them away.

Once the three were as alone as they ever would be on Nar Shaddaa, Ren spoke again.

“Captain Phasma, you will—”

The feeling returned, fainter than before, and Ren's hand fell to where he kept his lightsaber strapped to his waist.

Just as quickly, the pull dissipated.

Phasma's helmet shifted his direction, mask looking into mask. “My lord?”

“You will see to the cantina,” Ren told her once he came back to himself, long fingers curling through the open air beside the hilt of his saber. The Knight of Ren at his side shifted on her feet, more than ready to receive her own orders. “Briayl, you will follow _him_.”

“Of course.” Resting her hand on the butt of her holstered blaster, she shot a quick smile in Phasma's direction. “Looks like you've got the important job. Good luck, big girl.”

Phasma's displeasure was inaudible, but present.

“I want to know who he is,” Ren continued as he took his last, uneven step from the transport's loading ramp. “Leave four stormtroopers to watch the ship. Phasma, take the other two. You will go alone, Briayl, to avoid drawing much attention.”

But his compulsion to know more about the man was more than a want, more than a curiosity. There was something inside of him; what it was, they would see. And if they were unable to come to any conclusions on their own, Snoke would likely be interested.  
  


* * *

   
The moment the three left the hanger, Rulva's hand flew up and smacked Vander around his head. “Koochuu!” she whisper-yelled, repeating the Huttese insult with every half-hearted blow. She threw in a few other choice words, but none of them managed to diffuse the tension that lanced through him. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. It was heavier than fear, and it settled in the bottom of his stomach like sludge.

“I'm not—Rulva! Stop!” Smacking her hand away, Vander frowned. “I'm not an idiot, alright? I just... I wanted to know what they were saying. That's all.”

“Yeah, well, are you proud of yourself?”

Vander shook his head. “No, but only because I didn't really hear anything. Just that he's going see Aggesh.”

The Mirialan woman opened her mouth, likely to say something smart, but changed her mind in the end. She settled on a quiet, “I hope they get what they want and get offworld.” She glanced up at the shuttle. “Even his ship creeps me out. Don't get me started on him.”

Around them, the worker droids idled without command. A few wandered away, seeking out Lockind, but most of them stayed. Vander glanced at them, teeth worrying his bottom lip. “I need to get out of here.” Again, Rulva opened her mouth, but closed it when her coworker continued. “I think something's wrong. I've gotta check on my dad.”

Instead of running off, he waited, staring at her.

“What?” she snapped finally.

“You aren't going to tell me to stay?”

Rulva sighed and flapped a hand at him. “I've gotten past the point of thinking I can convince you to do anything.”

Despite himself, Vander's smile was broad and dimpled.

Before she could say another word, he was gone.

The droids teetered on their feet as he pushed past them. Like Rulva, they had a lot to say to him for his recklessness, but he wasn't there to hear it.

He tugged off his uniform shirt and tied the arms around his waist as he ran. Stripping down to the sleeveless undershirt he wore felt somewhat more professional than ducking and dodging ship captains and protocol droids while wearing his Deucalon Spaceport's best.

Maybe Lockind wouldn't fire him on the spot for causing a scene in front of the First Order then ditching his post.

And maybe Hutts could fly.

Vander knew he could find another job. It wouldn't pay as well, but he could work twice as hard and come away with the same. He wasn't afraid of laboring for credits. He was afraid for his parents. His dad, his mom, his other dad—if Kylo Ren had dealings with Aggesh, they could all be at risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm looking forward to seeing where this goes, and I hope someone out there is, too. I can't wait to get started on the second chapter, and the third, and the fourth. ❤


	3. Chapter II: Smuggler's Rest

Briayl Ren stepped onto the canopy outside of Deucalon Spaceport with a smile.

Thumbing over the homing beacon in her hand to activate it, she waited a moment then two, eyes narrowed in on Vander Syl as he vaulted over the side of an old airspeeder and fumbled with the controls. It lifted into the air with a shuddering thrum of the repulsorlifts, hovering in place for a time before rising.

She quickly concealed the tracker in her sleeve, and when the man glanced over the side of the speeder at his known pursuer, she gave a measurable 'I-give-up' shrug.

Satisfied, he turned back around to continue fussing with the speeder's interface. Despite being noticeably flustered, even from the ground, Vander managed to rocket forward and narrowly avoid a vehicle heading right towards him.

_One, two..._

The homing beacon slid back down into her palm, and she reared back before flinging it in his direction.

She watched as the beacon soared through the air, timed just right to avoid both incoming and outgoing traffic. It landed at the rear end of the speeder, and a surge of delight tightened in her chest. There wasn't anyone around to congratulate her, so she did the job herself, if silently, as she ran over to the group of speeders left on the canopy. Their owners would have to settle for the pleasure that came from aiding the First Order.

Leaping into a smaller, sleeker model than the one Vander escaped in, Briayl pulled a palm-sized comlink from her robes and settled into the driver's seat.

“FN-2210,” she shouted over the volume of the busy Nar Shaddaa intersection. Her attention shifted between the call and the vaguely familiar console in front of her. After a few strokes of her fingers, she managed to bring the vehicle to life. That was one problem solved. “He's running. I need you to track that speeder.”

“Right ahead of you, sir.”

Nar Shaddaa was unlike anything she'd ever seen, much less driven through. Keeping her head clear to process whatever directions the stormtrooper gave her was difficult given the unruly nature of those around her. Some drivers ducked and dove through speeders and barges and even the occasional stationary building, leaving a soup of chaos in their wake. She wagered half of them weren't even aware of the word _order_ ; fewer still were willing to abide by it.

At least the colors were beautiful. Even with both hands on the controls and one shoulder raised to keep the comlink close to her ear, she could appreciate the smear of neon in her peripheral vision. Outlines of women dancing shifted and changed before her eyes. Massive billboards advertising this casino or that brand of alcohol beckoned her with the faces of gorgeous alien women. It was like stepping back into another era after the stark black, white, and red of the First Order.

Nothing ever changed on Nar Shaddaa. Empires rose and fell, but the Smuggler's Moon remained the same.

Even in a rustbucket, Vander proved to be a talented driver. Even with Briayl doing everything she possibly could to close the gap between them, the distance widened and widened with every passing second. He'd likely grown up on Nar Shaddaa, and that gave him an edge against any offworlder. Or maybe he was just that good.

With every high speed turn, more of her hair whipped free from her braid, but her speed kept it from inhibiting her vision. The delight from earlier had been replaced with a steady throb of adrenaline. Every time she jerked the speeder's controls downward, she bit back a laugh and settled instead for a mad smile. “Where is he?” she called out, eyes flicking from building to building, from speeder to speeder.

“The speeder seems to have stopped.”

Without meaning to, Briayl's speeder slowed, sending her hair into her face. All around her, horns blazed as drivers swerved around her to avoid an accident. She pushed the unruly strands back, brow furrowing. “He must have arrived at his destination,” she said, just loud enough for her words to be picked up over the comlink. “Either that, or his speeder decided it was time to stop flying.”

The stormtrooper didn't laugh. “The vehicle seems to be intact, sir.”

“Of course,” Briayl exhaled with a sigh before pressing forward on the controls, nudging the speeder just far enough round the corner to see what was going on. “You would have lost the connection if he'd been reduced to a pile of twisted terenthium at the ground lev—oh.”

Apartment buildings stood twenty stories high on either side of the street. One was classier than the other, sporting floor-to-ceiling windows and personal docking bays, while their neighbors had to deal with a gigantic billboard of a smiling Nautolan man covering their windows.

The speeder was there, stalled halfway into someone's garage with the repulsorlifts keeping it afloat. Her homing beacon's bright red light flickered at the rear of it. But Vander Syl was nowhere to be found.  
  


* * *

  
Even to most natives of Nar Shaddaa, a Hutt's pleasure barge was as revolting as it was decadent. Twi'lek and human dancers walked around with bare feet, adorned with as many jewels as chains. Rare animals fought against their cages and the men who caged them, growling or hissing or crowing in anger. Each of them bared their weapons of choice, flinging saliva onto the carpet. The Hutt's gladiators roamed free, like the dancers. Their weapons hung by their sides, a promise rather than a threat. Every surface held buffets overflowing with exotic food and drink from every system imaginable.

And at the head of the barge sat its proprietor.

The only difference between Aggesh's barge and others within the realm of the massive Promenade was the state of its workers. Most Hutts saw their dancers and gladiators as currency rather than people, and they loved their credits. They took care of their credits.

Aggesh was rich enough not to care, and that was evident in the dancers' blank stares and the bruises on their skin. Half of the caged animals were slumped over in their cages, dead from their wounds and ready to be replaced by the next unfortunate creature. His gladiators prowled the deck with dried blood on their vibroblades.

But the food was plentiful, and those gathered for the week-long festivities seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to gorge themselves.

Kylo Ren would not be eating. He would not be reveling.

He moved through the crowd of socialites and ship captains without a word, and unwilling to demand an apology from a masked figure, they made room for him. Many turned away from the platters to watch as he cut a path through the crowd, eager to see what would happen. Dancers scampered away; gladiators eyed him suspiciously. They all hoped it would end in blood.

Not a single person stopped him until he was mere feet from Aggesh's throne.

The hand held out in front of his face was broad and thick-fingered, covered in leathery skin, and belonged to a Weequay male.

“Not another step,” the man said, and Ren stopped.

Behind him, Aggesh the Hutt sat, staring him down with massive yellow eyes. His corpulent form dripped over the edge of his dais, ridden with scars from old blaster bolts and sores from age. “Let me see him, Er-Dakk,” he called out, words rattling around in his gaping maw of a mouth. “I've heard of this one.”

The Weequay, Er-Dakk, stepped back and away, his glare only intensifying with his master's acceptance. He held an electrostaff nearly as tall as he was at his side. While there was no blood on the weapon, it was obvious to Ren that there had been at some point in its recent history.

“Kylo Ren,” the Hutt boomed. The men and women at his back gasped in recognition and began whispering amongst themselves. “I was wondering when the First Order would show up in my town.”

Watching Aggesh speak turned his stomach almost as much as hearing his name in his mouth did.

“Had we known you were a potential ally, I might have visited sooner.”

When Aggesh laughed, everyone behind him followed suit. Heat spread up the back of Ren's neck and into his ears, but he swallowed the rush of anger in one fiery gulp.

“Is that what this is? A visit?” Aggesh leaned one stumpy arm on the raised end of his throne. “It isn't because you need something on Nar Shaddaa, and you don't know where to find it?”

Ren took a solid step forward.

Er-Dakk tilted his electrostaff towards him.

Torn between Aggesh and his bodyguard, Ren spoke, his jaw clenched tight. “You're right,” he told him, fingers curling into fists at his sides. Everything inside of him gravitated towards the weight on his belt. Nothing would have been more satisfying in that moment than activating his lightsaber and cleaving the both of them in two. “I have heard rumors that Luke Skywalker had business in this sector roughly thirteen years ago.”

The quiet laughter at his back went dead quiet, leaving only the agonized and angry cries of the animals to be heard. Aggesh's mouth flapped in silent fury, a thick white spittle clinging to the corners. “I don't deal with Skywalkers!” he shouted, slamming his fist down on his throne and overturning a drink. “They're Hutt-killers! The both of them!”

Ren remembered the stories—of Jabba, of Grakkus, of the lesser Hutts who met their ends at the hands of the Skywalker twins.

He took another step forward.

The vibrant purple glow of Er-Dakk's active electrostaff gleamed off of his mask.

“Would you like to kill a Skywalker?”  
  


* * *

  
The Knight of Ren's speeder stopped beside the canopy. Even at a distance, Vander could see her head swiveling to and fro as she surveyed the area, combing over every detail and finding nothing. She put a speeder in stasis and stood on the expensive leather seat, balanced by her long limbs. He could barely breathe as he watched her leap through the open air and land in a roll on the docking canopy without even a running start.

Heart racing, Vander tucked himself farther behind the billboard. He'd been chased before. The difference was that those chases were nothing but good-natured, if dangerous fun between friends. It didn't take a genius to know that this was different. Much different.

He pressed his forehead to the billboard's warm metallic backing.

“Too close,” he whispered, voice drowned out by Nar Shaddaa traffic. “Way too close.”

Calming his heart while his head ran in anxious circles proved to be difficult. With every deep breath he took, Vander only felt his heart beat faster and faster. She was waiting, searching, deliberating, and he was safe for the time being. But the chromium-clad stormtrooper was somewhere else entirely. So was Kylo Ren.

Knowing he was likely on Aggesh's barge by now made his entire body throb with worry. His dad was on that barge.

A ridiculous, but still unsettling thought overtook him. If this Knight of Ren was on his trail, did Kylo Ren's visit to Nar Shaddaa have something to do with him? Was the chromium stormtrooper heading towards his other dad's cantina?

Vander shook his head, bracing himself against the windowsill at his back.

She was only following him because of his actions at the Spaceport. That's what happens when you pry into someone's business; they send a kriffing assassin after you.

Then, a voice, barely heard over the whizzing of speeders. “Have you found him?”

The woman's response was as exultant as it was sarcastic. “Yes! I was just waiting for you to ask.”

Despite himself or perhaps because of his fear, Vander snickered.

“Is there a path he might have taken on foot?” the stormtrooper asked, patience audibly unraveling. As he spoke, the volume of his voice weakened. The Knight was walking around the garage; the farther away she got, the less he could hear, and he wasn't about to chance a listen. “—knows this terrain better—lives in this sector—careful.”

“It's Nar Shaddaa.” The Knight grew closer again, and he pressed his forehead to the back of the billboard, eyes closing and breaths slowing. “There are more paths than people, _and_ he apparently knows I'm following him.”

It was more of an assumption than any actual knowledge, and he was more disappointed about being right than he'd ever been.

“He might come back for the speeder,” the Knight said slowly. “Which would be useless if I...”

A chorus of quiet bleeps from across the way twisted his stomach into a knot. He curled his fingers at the windowsill, tight enough for his knuckles to ache. The steady thrum of his speeder's repulsorlifts cut into a relative silence.

Through the grating beneath his feet, he opened his eyes to watch as his family's old speeder plummeted to the ground. The fall took seconds, and the explosion that followed was loud enough and bright enough to take his breath away.

“I assume you had time to figure out who the speeder belonged to.” The Knight's stolen speeder dipped beneath her weight before surging back up to altitute. “I want to know the name, the home address, whatever you can give me.”

Vander's mouth fell open, a flush of anger leaving him red-cheeked.

 _I should have kept going. Ditching the speeder was a stupid move._ He bit down on his bottom lip and waited to hear what the stormtrooper had to say. _But if I took the speeder back home, she would've caught up to me there anyway. There's no winning_.

“The speeder belongs to someone named Gilt Dreik. The home address...”

Vander held his breath, hoping for an error.

There was none. “Huh. The address appears to be in the same location as the Smuggler's Rest cantina.”

The Knight of Ren laughed. She laughed while Vander stood there, nauseous and hating himself for his mistake. “Looks like the good Captain and I are going to be working together again. This just got interesting.”

If he stayed there, cowering in his hiding spot until she was long gone, Vee would be alone with them for even longer. There was more of a chance that they might hurt his family. Because of him.

Vander stepped away from the apartment window. He shimmied down the grating until he could curl around the edge of the billboard.

“Hey!” he shouted. “You looking for somebody?”

The Knight twisted her head in his direction, comlink still held close to her mouth. It didn't conceal her disbelieving grin.

At least he'd be getting a ride back to the cantina.  
  


* * *

  
Er-Dakk hit the ground with a grunt and was held on his knees by the gladiator at his back, vibroblade hovering mere inches over his spine. Even that didn't keep the Weequay quiet, however. His shouts only got more desperate with every threat from the man at his back.

“That's my son!” he cried out, face twisting in anger. “You said he was safe if we kept payin' you!”

Aggesh laughed, and so did the people around them. This time, Kylo Ren did not feel the rush of shame. This time, it felt more like a victory.

“I'm tired of waiting. It's been... how long's it been?”

Er-Dakk grimaced as his head sunk. A thick bundle of braids—the mark of having lived away from his home planet for decades—slid over his shoulder. It was evident in the tension in his form that he didn't want to answer, but silence would do him more harm than good. “Since he was fifteen.”

Aggesh's broad mouth turned upwards in what appeared to be a smile. “And how old is he now?”

“Twenty-seven.” Er-Dakk's hands turned into fists on the carpet.

“I'm rich enough.” The Hutt leaned against the arm of his throne. Fat spilled over the side. “Do you know how rich a Hutt's gotta be for him to say that?”

The beaten bodyguard raised his head again, looking Aggesh in his bulbous yellow eyes. “Don't do this. Me and Vee'll do anything you want. You need somebody dead? You need—you need something delivered?” He reached for straws, but found none in his hands. Floundering, Er-Dakk tore a growl from his throat. “Anything! C'mon, Aggesh, that's gotta mean something to you!”

“I want him.” Aggesh took a drink offered from the tray of a Twi'lek dancer before shoving her away. “I need new entertainment, and he's prettier than any of the ones I've got.”

Ren watched disgust wash over the Weequay's face. “You can't!”

The Hutt didn't like that. Ren's knowledge of the race was tempered by inexperience, but even he knew not to say those words to any of them. Their pleasure barges, their ostentatious shows of wealth, their empires of gold and bone—it was likely in an attempt to snub someone who told them, “You can't.”

“I can, and I will!” He turned to Ren, lifting the glass just far enough to slosh some of the liquid over the side and over himself. “My new associate here will make sure of it.”

Er-Dakk struggled to stand only to be knocked back down onto his hands and knees.

Beside the Hutt, a pale blue hologram of the man in question rotated in a slow circle. He was slender with ruffled brown hair and a broad jaw. The projection left something to be desired in the way of detailing, but Ren knew without a shadow of a doubt that the man Aggesh wanted was none other than Vander Syl.

Without looking away from the hologram, Ren asked the Weequay, “Did you know that your... son is Force-sensitive.”

Aggesh squirmed happily on his throne. “Even better!”

Ignoring Aggesh's delight, Er-Dakk murmured a low, “No.”

When Ren looked at him, searching the very surface of his mind as easily as someone would search a face for recognition, he felt the lie. Or, rather, the absence of truth. Er-Dakk shuddered in discomfort as he probed deeper.

“Of course you knew.”

Drawing away, he peered down at Er-Dakk, who collapsed onto his forearms, still trembling. Rage replaced the discomfort. Some small part of Ren looked forward to whatever he would do to the Hutt.

“Bring me to the cantina,” he said, finally looking away from the fallen Weequay to Aggesh. “You'll have him, and then you'll help me.”

While the Hutt remained on the barge with his bodyguard, Aggesh offered Ren a small contingent of gladiators to aid him at the Smuggler's Rest. They both knew bloating the numbers was unnecessary, but Hutts never trusted easily and trusted the powerful even less.

Ren was grateful for his mask. It hid his suspicions just as easily as it hid his revulsion. The gladiators pressed in from either side of him, unwashed, wounds untreated and festering. Not that they were bothered by their physical state. Enduring years of torturous training numbed them to it, to the edge of death. They were dangerous men. Ren respected that despite loathing Aggesh's methods.

Upon reaching the cantina, the men exited the speeder to join their fellows from the vehicle that followed them. Clad in shredded leathers and heavy chest plates, they looked more like warriors of old than modern fighters. The blades at their hips only enhanced the near-feral approach Aggesh liked so much.

Ren stepped out onto the wide landing platform and looked over the face of the building.

 _The Smuggler's Rest_ was a testament to its owner's former profession. A neon sign hung between twisted scrap metal, casting a red glow over the tilted balcony. Men and women stood around, some of them nursing drinks, all of them looking a little bit nervous. They looked as unsavory as he expected and as skittish at the sight of Aggesh's gladiators. A few went so far as to break off from their compatriots the moment they arrived, abandoning the cantina for better company.

A sly-looking Devaronian leaned against the building in mid-conversation with a Rodian woman. He held up a hand upon seeing Ren approach, stopping the woman in the middle of a sentence.

“You lost?” he called out, even as Ren and the gladiators approached the building. The Devaronian's eyes darted to the men at Ren's side, and he frowned, attempting to stop the bulk of them with a sweep of his arms. “We've got a full house tonight, gentlemen. Party of twelve. Gammorean. One of their buddies is celebrating five years with the Sector's sewage company.” His nose wrinkled. “Pungent bunch.”

 _Lie_.

Ren's strides lengthened. His determined gait brought him past the Devaronian and into the cantina.  
  


* * *

  
There were no Gamorreans.

Vander would have preferred the smell to his present company.

Wringing his hands out, he idled beside the Knight of Ren and the chromium-clad stormtrooper. They watched him and his mother, the blue-skinned Twi'lek behind the bar, in equal measure, blasters raised and hot. But they didn't shoot, which he considered a small victory. The family protocol droid, TC-29, hadn't come off so easily. He stood at the end of the bar, blank-eyed with a quickly warming drink on the platter he carried.

“You're lucky Kylo Ren needs you,” Phasma said, low and threatening in the way everyone in the First Order seemed to be capable of. “You would be considered nothing but a hindrance otherwise.”

Bupvija snorted. “If I was lucky, you wouldn't be here.”

“I don't think anybody's ever counted themselves _lucky_ if Kylo Ren needed them for something.”

The three women turned to look at Vander. He glanced away, busying himself with admiring the interior of the cantina.

He knew this place better than anywhere on Nar Shaddaa. His first memories were of eating his meals at the durasteel tables, toes of his boots just barely grazing the floor. The lighting was feeble at best, but ambiance was everything when it came to a watering hole like this one.

Dim and smoky and _warm_ , the Smuggler's Rest was a central hub for everyone who didn't have anywhere else.

They never lacked for strangers. Vander met someone new every day of his life, from fourteen to twenty-seven. Today, those strangers wore shiny white armor. Today, those strangers brought their blasters to bear.

He was looking right at the entryway when a familiar cloaked and hooded figure came into the room.

“Restrain him.”

Vander didn't have time enough to think much less fight back when the Knight of Ren wrestled his arms behind his back to hold them there. Black armor disguised a pure, physical strength he hadn't expected, and her hands closed around his wrists like a vise.

Vee shouted for her to stop, and Gilt rushed forward only to be pinned in place by the muzzle of Phasma's blaster.

Ren moved past them all to stand right in front of him.

Fighting against the Knight's grip was futile, but it was better—and easier—than looking into Kylo Ren's featureless mask. Vander squirmed and tugged, mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Look at me.”

He didn't.

Ren reached out with the Force rather than his gloved hand, tugging Vander's face upwards with sheer will. The mixture of fear and panic that grew in his veins was what drove him to actually look at him, wild-eyed.

The man's hand fell away just as quickly. His Force-grip dissipated, and Vander sunk in the Knight's arms.

Kylo Ren took a step back, glancing around the room from face to face, as if he was suddenly unsure of where he stood. Aggesh's gladiators reached for their vibroblades. The stormtroopers held their ground, blasters aimed towards the family.

Behind the mask came a single word, a name, a murmured: “Hallam...”

He shook his head and moved forward again, this time grasping Vander's entire face with a long-fingered hand, forcing their eyes to meet a second time. When he spoke, he spoke past Vander rather than to him, loud enough for only the Knight to hear. “Let him go. He's the one we came for.”

In one smooth movement, Ren let go of Vander's face and dropped his hand to the lightsaber at his belt. He turned to the stormtroopers as he activated the weapon in a hiss of heat and red.

“Kill the gladiators.”


	4. Chapter III: Hutt-killer

The first gladiator fell within seconds, a blaster bolt leaving his throat smoking.

Without the element of surprise, the others wouldn't go down so easily.

A cry of, “Vander!” from his right pulled him in that direction, released from Briayl's grip and stumbling a little as she darted away. Vee disappeared behind the bar to grab for something. At his back, the gladiators shouted in Huttese, Phasma directed her stormtroopers, and Gilt gave a frustrated yell before sending off a warning shot into the ceiling that not a single soul acknowledged.

When his mom reappeared from beneath the bar, she held his dad's holdout electrostaff. It wasn't as good as the one he used at work, but it would do in a pinch. And this was definitely a pinch.

Vander reached forward, snatching the heavy weapon from her hands with a bewildered, “Thanks!”

Having the weight of something in his hands, something meant to protect and to fight, was comforting among the chaos in the cantina. Streaks of red fired from every side; most were deflected by weapons or absorbed by armor. Even when someone made contact with the gladiators' exposed flesh, they didn't cry out. They didn't flinch. They just continued forward.

He honed in on Kylo Ren as he moved towards the nearest gladiator. With a gesture, the durasteel table blocking his path flew to the side, along with the chairs, knocking over one gladiator and threatening to topple one of his own men.

Vander's mouth dropped open.

“Flank them,” Phasma ordered the stormtroopers at her side, her voice clear and crisp even behind the helmet she wore. “Their armor is concentrated around their chest. Take them out from behind. Ren will keep their attention.”

And he did.

Ren moved unlike anything he'd ever seen in a fight. Nothing short of a vibrohammer demanded strength in the way his lightsaber seemed to. Even the beginning swings, meant to intimidate rather than kill, had heft to them. The unstable red blade kicked up a flurry of sparks each time it skimmed over the ground, and when he spun it, heat and light followed, illuminating the face of the gladiator before him.

The man had no chance, and he knew it. But bravery was beaten into Aggesh's gladiators. Unwilling to turn and give his back to Ren, the man stood his ground and gripped his vibroblade even more tightly. He swung once and then again. The second slice tore into Ren's heavy cloak, sending the fabric rippling back to expose his gleaming black armor.

Even the smallest contact emboldened the entire group.

All around, the gladiators yelled wordlessly. One vaulted over a table and smashed the hilt of his vibroblade into the helmet of a stormtrooper. Blood splattered over the broken white shell. Another rushed at Briayl, dodging the bolts from her blaster with vicious ease.

A surge of worry forced Vander into action. He activated the electrostaff and took a breath, remembering his lessons with the weapon he held in-hand.

 _Hit 'em for long enough, and they die_.

“Five seconds,” Vander muttered to himself. “Just five seconds.”

Eyes skimming over the fight, he struggled to find an opening, to zero in on someone he could kill. Gladiators were engaged all over the cantina floor. Now there were two held in place by Ren. Briayl had discarded her cloak to keep it from slowing her down, and a single man trailed her. Between Phasma, her remaining stormtrooper, and his father, three of the gladiators held their ground, finding cover behind and beneath the durasteel tables that littered the area. Only one of them remained unchecked... and he was heading straight for him and his mom.

That made things easier, at least.

“Hey!” Vander shouted, drawing the gladiator's attention. “How about you pick a fight with me rather than somebody who's unarmed?”

Vee opened her mouth to protest, but Vander was already moving, quick on his feet and eager to get things started. The gladiator already wore no small amount of wounds, some old and some fresh, all of them bleeding from his movements. He was terrifying. Sitting up in the stands of Aggesh's arena was one thing, but going toe to toe with someone who battled gigantic beasts on the daily was another matter entirely. He wasn't ready for this fight.

When the gladiator lifted his vibroblade and swung down, the purple glow of Vander's electrostaff caught his twisted expression, and fear replaced any adrenaline pumping through Vander's body.

He lifted his electrostaff, blocking the blow with a grunt. The hum of the vibroblade hit the steady pulse of his own weapon. He gave a violent shudder at the impact, pulling out of the parry as quickly as he could. Still, Vander couldn't help himself. Even standing in the shadow of a man almost twice his size, his mouth ran while his mind reeled. “Are all—are all Aggesh's guys as ugly as you?”

The gladiator grinned with a mouthful of broken teeth before swinging again, this one strong enough to send Vander skidding back against the bar.

Panic seized him, drawing his hands tighter around his staff, knuckles gleaming white against the dark metal. “Look!” His opponent took a step forward. “Look, look, some people are into that!” He raised his sword again. “I'm just—I'm more into—”

Before he could stammer the end of his sentence, the gladiator's body went rigid. His hands loosened around his vibroblade before falling away. The weapon clattered to the ground beside the body that fell forward, narrowly missing Vander.

“Less talking!” Briayl shouted from across the room. She leapt over one of the chairs before tossing it in the direction of the gladiator who followed her with a gesture akin to the one Kylo Ren had used moments before. The impact from the thrown chair distracted him momentarily, just long enough for her to put more distance between them. When he looked up, he looked into the barrel of her blaster. Then he died.

The woman, the Knight of Ren, was quicker than anyone he'd ever seen, and she couldn't have been more different from the man who stood in the center of the room, surrounded by overturned tables and half-wasted chairs.

Neither of the gladitators had moved more than a few inches since the last time he'd looked over in that direction. Their confidence was sapped in the face of a lightsaber, a working lightsaber, wielded by someone who also appeared to wield the Force. Vander couldn't blame them. Going up against someone with a relic from before the War was one thing; facing down someone who knew what they were doing was another.

He shifted closer to the three of them, around the fallen tables, around the broken chairs, until he was close enough to feel the warmth of the lightsaber.

“Don't come any closer,” Ren told him.

Vander listened.  


* * *

  
Confusion slowed him down.

He moved as if through a fog, thoughts torn between the fight at hand and the man at his back.

Longing for clarity, Kylo Ren lunged forward. The lightsaber hit the first gladiator's vibroblade with a spitting spray of red, but even the heat of the blade wasn't enough to make the man recoil. Ren swung away, taking a solid step back, grimacing in the shadow of his mask.

Anger and relief bubbled inside of him, side by side.

His agreement with Aggesh became void the moment he got close enough to Vander Syl to see the colors of his eyes—one brown and one blue.

He knew those eyes. And that face.

In another time, he knew him.

Billions upon billions of people lived on Nar Shaddaa, but Ren felt the brush of the Force the moment he stepped off his ship. If he had only been more suspicious, he might have discovered who Vander Syl was right in the middle of the docking bay—Hallam, a former padawan of Luke Skywalker, the man he'd come to find.

The gladiator sprung forward a step, keen on digging his blade into Ren's side while he hesitated.

He parried with a blow strong enough to knock the man back a step and took that opportunity in stride, swinging his lightsaber down across his belly. The cut skin and muscle burned, giving off an acrid scent and curling back. His intestines slopped forward, dropping away from his gut, and the man fell into a heap on the floor.

When the second gladiator kicked the first aside, Ren felt Vander's presence, closer than before. “Don't come any closer,” he repeated, voice deep, each word emphasized.

“I know this one,” Vander said as he stepped into view, electrostaff lowered in the man's direction. He spoke without looking at him. “He's one of Aggesh's favorites. I saw him take down a rancor a year or two ago. Do you know how hard it is to kill one of those things?”

Ren turned his attention towards the gladiator.

He _was_ different from the ones who'd been killed. The armor he wore covered his shoulders and arms, leaving only his hands and thighs bare. Scars riddled whatever skin he could see. They were scars from beasts, ugly and torn, leaving his muscles bunched, knotted.

Just as Ren cut a red path through the air in front of him, he heard Vander shout out a half-finished warning of, “His vibroblade—!”

The gladiator lifted his weapon. The impact was nothing, glancing at best.

Ren's lightsaber shorted out.

“—is made with cortosis-weave,” Vander finished.

“Yes.” Pressing his thumb against the button on the hilt of his lightsaber to activate it again, Ren sneered a low, “I know.”

Anger eclipsed whatever relief he felt before, and he lunged at the gladiator, leaning away from his riposte before giving another, heavier swing of his saber. The mere idea of a pit fighter getting the better of him was enough to push Ren that much harder.

His pursuit of the man was relentless. He avoided each and every attempt the gladiator made at clashing their weapons, though he still cleaved through tables and chairs rather than flesh.

The gladiator stepped back without looking. His boot caught on an overturned stool, and his balance wavered, body threatening to topple over.

That breath of instability was all Ren needed.

He slashed forward with his lightsaber. The blade cut through the man's exposed thigh, through muscle and through bone, and the limb fell away, tangled in the twisted metal of the stool's legs. With a scream of pain, the gladiator lurched forward, reaching with everything he had to get one last chance to cut Kylo Ren.

Instead, Vander's electrostaff caught him on his jaw, sending him sprawling to the side and leaving him convulsing in pain.

Ren did nothing as Vander leapt over the fallen stool and stood over the gladiator. There was no indecision in him when he thrust the electrostaff down into the exposed meat of the man's throat. Electricity surged through his body, tightening his muscles into a painful arch. One moment passed, then another, and Vander stood there, focus written all over his face. He kept the staff steady as the man fried from the inside. The struggling stopped.

A loud crash tore his attention away from Vander.

Phasma stood with a gladiator held against a cantina wall, the toes of his heavy boots barely touching the floor and his vibroblade forgotten feet away. Of the nine gladiators who followed Ren into the Smuggler's Rest, she held the last of them. The rest lay dead, shot or torn open or fried, spilling pools of dark blood over the floor.

“Kill him.” Ren's voice rang out in the now-quiet cantina.

A sick smile spread over the gladiator's face at the order. He spit his last words, all of them in Huttese, before Phasma planted her hands at the base of his jaw and twisted, breaking his neck. As the warrior slid down the wall, she turned away, looking from Gilt to Vander to Bupvija. “ _What_ did he say?”

It was Gilt who answered her.

“He said Aggesh is gonna enjoy feeding you to his pets.”

Phasma spoke with a sneer. “I would like to see him try.”  
  


* * *

  
The next time Gilt opened his mouth, he had a question: “Where is Er-Dakk?”

Vander perked up at that, deactivating the electrostaff and moving over to where the group was now gathering around Kylo Ren. Even Vee slipped around the corner of the bar and rushed over to Gilt's side, as eager as he was to receive an answer.

“He's on the Hutt's barge,” Ren answered, his disgust plain as day even behind his mask. He returned his lightsaber to his belt before looking around from face to face. “But there are more important—”

“No,” Gilt interrupted him. “No, there isn't.”

“Are you implying that the safety of one man is of more importance than—”

The Devaronian didn't so much as flinch, not even in the face of Ren's mounting frustration. “Yeah,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “I am.”

Phasma took a threatening step forward, but with a wave of his hand, Ren stopped her in her tracks.

“You trashed my cantina. The least you could do is save my man.”

Vander watched the conversation unfold with a flurry of anxiety in his chest—for his father, for his dad, for himself.

 _He's the one we came for_.

What did that even mean? Why was Kylo Ren here for him? What did the First Order want? Stories about the things the First Order and the Knights of Ren did to Force-sensitives were spoken about in whispers. If he was one of those, were they going to kill him?

As if on cue, Vee spoke up. “What do you want with us, anyway?” She shot a glare in Phasma and Briayl's direction. “No one's given us any answers.”

“I want Hallam.”

The simple answer silenced both Gilt and Bupvija.

Vander set the electrostaff down on a nearby cantina table before going over, brows flat, jaw tense. “Who are you even talking about?” he demanded. “I get that you think I'm Hallam or whoever, but that's not my name.”

Ren turned, slowly, and looked right at him. “It is.”

Looking to his parents, Vander frowned. “What is he talking about?”

“Look,” Gilt began, curling a lean arm around Vee's waist and pulling her closer as much for her comfort as his own. “It's a long story, alright? And you know how I feel about long stories. It's the short ones that...”

“... keep the customers drinking.”

The Devaronian chuckled. “I figured everything was alright. Nar Shaddaa's a big place. You were safe for thirteen or so years. We never even thought about moving, though that would've been the smart thing to do, apparently.”

“You liked it here.” Vee smiled crookedly at him. “And everything... It was supposed to be a secret.”

Ren wasn't interested in their placating explanations. “Tell him the truth or I will.”

Gilt didn't bother hiding his grimace, but he continued as he was ordered. For Vander's sake rather than Kylo Ren's.

“When you were fourteen, Luke Skywalker dropped you off here, asked us to take care of you. I hadn't met Er-Dakk yet, so it was just me and Vee. She fixed up his droid when she was younger, and he remembered her. Trusted her. He didn't give us any answers, just told us that he had a bad feeling. You trust bad feelings when it's a Jedi getting 'em.”

Vander's head swam. None of this made sense. All of it did.

No memories before fourteen. Knowing how to use the Force. The whispered name in Ren's mouth.

“So who am I?”

“You're Vander!” Vee insisted, detaching from Gilt's side to move over to him. Her hands were warm on his face and a little clammy. “You're not the kid Skywalker brought to us. You're a man, and you know who you are.”

Vander looked to Kylo Ren. He looked for the truth.

Ren stepped closer to both of them. He loomed, hooded and dark, but his words rang true. “You're Hallam Nek. You were born on Hapes, and you trained with Luke Skywalker from the time you were nine years old.”

“Can we...” Vander moved away from Vee, from Ren, and turned his back on everyone, bracing himself on a cantina table. He drew a slow breath. When he exhaled, the air caught in his throat. Vander Syl. Hallam Nek. Spaceport employee. Jedi hopeful. “Can we talk about this later? After dad is safe?”

Gilt cleared his throat. “We need to get to Aggesh before he kills Er-Dakk.”

Briayl tilted her head, hands finding the widest part of her hips. “And just how are we going to do that?”

After a long moment of silent deliberation, Ren replied.

“By bringing him what he wants.”  


* * *

  
Vander hated Aggesh's barge almost as much as he hated Aggesh.

He'd only been aboard once or twice in all the years he'd been on Nar Shaddaa, and as he got older, he came to understand why. He understood why his parents worked so hard. He understood why Er-Dakk came home disgusted and angry some nights. He understood why anyone working for Aggesh looked at him like he could've been their next meal.

Aggesh wanted him.

Chancing a glance at Kylo Ren as the man dragged him through the crowd, Vander frowned. Aggesh wasn't the only one.

The flicker of emotion on his face was replaced by the passive, broken expression he'd practiced during the trip there from the cantina. He slumped in Ren's arms, hands bound behind his back, and looked every inch like the defeated party.

He knew he was heavier than he looked. Some small part of him delighted in being dead weight.

When they reached the edge of the crowd, Vander's eyes fluttered open as his head lolled to the side. Er-Dakk and Aggesh reacted in unison. The Hutt's cheering nearly drowned out his dad's heart-broken shout. Nearly.

“No! No, no, nonono.” Er-Dakk struggled against the stun cuffs that kept him half-hunched at the foot of Aggesh's throne. “Please! Please don't do—”

One of Aggesh's few remaining gladiators shoved Er-Dakk's own electrostaff against his back. While he didn't hold it there, the weapon gave him enough of a shock to send him onto the floor, limbs shaking with spasms, eyes still focused on his son.

Ren dropped Vander to the ground.

“I did as you asked.” He stood tall, proud. A believable villain, even in the eyes of a Hutt. “Now you will do as I ask.”

Vander opened his eyes and looked towards Er-Dakk. The Weequay man shifted forward, straining his neck to get a better look at him. But before he could do or say anything, Vander gave him the smallest of winks. It was a Gilt Dreik wink.

“If you are as powerful as you claim...”

Ren spoke slowly, drawing his words out just to watch Aggesh squirm. And squirm he did—angrily, fitfully. He hated owing anyone anything, but even he knew better than to go up against the First Order. The few planets who stood in opposition or even in the way of the organization were nothing but asteroids and space dust now.

“You will have no trouble aiding me in killing Luke Skywalker. Succeed where your kind has failed, and the First Order will be grateful.”

Aggesh sat staring at them with his greedy yellow eyes. “Bring the boy closer.” When Ren refused to budge, the Hutt clarified. “I've gotta know it's actually him.”

Ren hauled Vander to his feet again, dragging him forward with what appeared to be no small amount of effort. A hush fell over the crowd as Aggesh rubbed his hands together, pleasure bubbling up in his throat the closer the two of them got.

When they finally stood before the Hutt, Ren pushed Vander forward a step.

The smell hit him like running into a solid wall, and he bit down on his cheek to keep from gagging. His revulsion only made Aggesh happier. He reached out with a short arm to touch over Vander's jaw, admiring his new trophy. His skin was too-warm; his fingertips, vaguely sticky.

The Hutt was so distracted by Vander that he didn't see Ren's gloved hand move to his hip.

Only when he heard the telltale _snap-hiss_ of a lightsaber activating did he let out a distraught cry, shoving Vander aside and turning every pound of flesh in Ren's direction.

“Hutt-killer!” he bellowed.

Vander hit the ground with a thud before tossing the loose stun cuffs away from his wrists and bolting to Er-Dakk's side. The gladiator guarding him was split—help Aggesh, kill Er-Dakk, help Aggesh, kill Er-Dakk. His indecision was his undoing. He swung the stolen electrostaff too late, and Vander dodged the blow. The passing electricity caused his hair to momentarily stand on end, and he barreled forward, throwing his weight into the man and sending them both to the floor.

The electrostaff slid over the barge's slick floor before tumbling over the edge and plummeting down to the ground level of Nar Shaddaa.

They were both unarmed, but the gladiator was a gladiator and Vander was Vander. He knew how crucial taking advantage of an upper hand was, so he reared back and punched down into the gladiator's face.

The first impact sent a small spurt of blood out of his nose. The second smacked the crown of his head against the tile. By the third, fourth, and fifth, his face had already begun swelling, mush beneath Vander's broken knuckles and fractured bones.

Still straddling the gladiator's waist, Vander twisted around just in time to see Kylo Ren open up Aggesh the Hutt from his throat to his belly with a single downward cleave of his lightsaber. The blade only cut so deep, splitting through blubber and the creature's less vital organs.

Aggesh gave a rattling scream of pain.

“You're no—you're no better than a—than a Skywalker!”

After that, Ren took his time despite the crowd of people at his back, panicked, rushing to the other side of the barge. Some contacted the authorities. Others contacted the Hutt Cartel. None of them mattered to Ren, to Vander, to Er-Dakk. They only watched as the Hutt floundered and spat and sobbed, face twisting itself into an even uglier state.

Ren carved into his intestines, into his stomach, into his lungs. The searing heat of his lightsaber cauterized the wounds as he went, making it easier to keep the Hutt from bleeding out right on his throne.

Amid Aggesh's screams, Ren answered his claims in a booming voice.

“I am Master of the Knights of Ren.”

His saber split the multiple chambers of the Hutt's heart. Muscles coiled away from the blade, and blood hissed into a vapor. Ren pulled away with a swing and hum of his lightsaber, admiring his handiwork for all of a moment before deactivating the weapon.

The smell was as hideous as the sight. Vander lifted his uninjured hand to his mouth, choking on the bile that rose in his throat.

At his side, Er-Dakk shifted onto his knees and moved over to his son. “Look, I don't know what's going on here,” he said. “But you need to get me outta these cuffs.”

Vander let his hand fall away from his mouth for just long enough to free his dad's wrists. He replaced it soon after, staring at Er-Dakk with bleary eyes. “I don't know what's going on either,” he told him, words muffled by his palm. “All I know is we've got to get out of here before somebody shows up.”

Er-Dakk nodded before standing and helping Vander to his feet. Once he was convinced they could both stand on their own, he crossed the floor to Aggesh's smoking corpse, giving it a swift kick in the side. The impact caused the body to slump over against the arm of the throne. Warmed, bloody fat pulled away from the flesh, seeping slowly down the gaping wound.

Pleased with himself, he returned to Vander and wrapped an arm around him, hauling his son into an embrace.

“I know somewhere we can go, somewhere the Cartel won't find us.”


	5. Chapter IV: Verity

“It may not look like much, but it'll keep an army of Hutt-employed Trandoshans out of our hair.”

Gilt grinned before swiping a hand over his bald red scalp. “Well, your hair.”

Kylo Ren surveyed the former smuggler's hideout with a veiled frustration. The interior was an organized mess. What looked like a small apartment building from the outside opened up into a larger-than-average garage, filled with ship parts and paraphernalia, smelling of oil. Gilt sat at one of the few tables. His blaster pistol lay in pieces on the polished surface in front of him.

On the far side of the room, Phasma stood with a stormtrooper to her left and Briayl to her right. They waited for orders, tension evident in the rigid lines of their forms.

The impending success of their mission on Nar Shaddaa stripped the shackles of unease from Ren's ankles and turned the Hutt's words into an echo from miles away.

He had Hallam... _Vander_. He had Vander now. There was no need to stand around and explain while Luke Skywalker's ship dropped out of hyperspace in the moon's orbit.

Er-Dakk stepped past him with Vander in tow. Bupvija watched them approach, looking more eager to fix her son's hand than worried about the inevitable fallout. The situation wasn't unfamiliar to her, that much was evident in her posture and the determined light in her eye.

The banged up medical droid at her side offered to assist her, but she waved it off as she pulled out a chair for Vander to sit.

She lifted Vander's arm with one hand and his wrist with the other, her eyes widening at the sight of his swollen fingers. “What the hell did you do?”

“Punched someone 'til they died,” Vander said, grimacing.

Bupvija glared at Er-Dakk. The Weequay man gave a shrug of his broad shoulders. “He did it to save my life. I'm not judging his methods.”

“Alright,” she said slowly. “So I won't be asking any more questions.” Turning to towards the medical droid's tray, Bupvija set Vander's hand carefully upon her knee and picked up a bottle of small, glistening pills. She twisted off the top and removed one before unceremoniously shoving it into Vander's mouth with a command of, “Swallow.”

He did as he was told, face twisting into a second grimace as the bacta capsule made its way down his throat.

The Twi'lek's face softened as she replaced the cap and returned the bottle to the droid's tray. When she looked up again, her eyes moved from Vander's to Er-Dakk's to the gleaming faceplate of Ren's mask. “Actually, I do have one more question.” She stared at him and only him now, pointed chin tilted upwards. “Is the Hutt dead?”

Er-Dakk laughed. “Yeah, our new friend here carved him like he was serving up a Month of Plenty feast.”

“Gross,” Vander said under his breath.

Bupvija rested a motherly hand on his shoulder, and he smiled.

Er-Dakk turned away from Bupvija and Vander, looking to Ren instead. “I want answers before the four of us make any decisions. You got rid of Aggesh, but you've put my family in danger by doing so. I want to know what's going on. I want to know what you're after.”

Vander sat up straighter. The medical droid admonished him for moving while it applied his cast, but he waved it off with his free hand. He looked from Er-Dakk to Ren to Er-Dakk.

“He wants me.”

Rather than responding to Vander's accurate claim, Ren took an uneven step closer to his three parents. “You know Luke Skywalker plans on returning to Nar Shaddaa and taking your son.” He glanced around the garage, over the junk and the tech and the memories, and the pieces slowly began to fall into place. Retired smuggler. Former Hutt bodyguard. Droid expert, med tech, and bartender. They didn't fit together, but they did. “He intends to bring... Vander into the Resistance, to teach him the ways of the Jedi.”

Bupvija stared at him. Er-Dakk stared at him. Gilt glanced away with a frown.

“The Resistance will crumble. Either at the hands of the First Order or by the will of the New Republic. Or a little of both.”

Er-Dakk's brow ridge flattened.

“You can either hand him over to the man who abandoned him and will lead him to ruin.” Ren took another step forward, closing in on Bupvija, who he could tell was still unconvinced. “Or you could allow me to train him in the ways of the Force.”

“We've heard about how the First Order treats aliens.” Bupvija's hands went to her hips, and she stared him down. If he was younger or lacked experience, her tone might have given him pause. “Why are you even bothering with us? Why not just take him and leave?”

“It was an option,” Ren said slowly. Vander's head snapped in his direction. “One I decided not to pursue.”

Without looking up from his tinkering, Gilt asked, “Which did you 'pursue' then?”

“I implore Vander to choose his own path.”  
  


* * *

  
Laughter caught in Vander's still-aching throat.

“Choose my own path?” he echoed. “I don't hear you giving me any choices.”

Kylo Ren's form tensed, but at least he didn't reach for his lightsaber. Small victories were still victories, and the patience Ren exhibited emboldened him, giving him the courage to press harder.

When he moved to respond, Vander cut him off, unwilling to hear any half-baked explanations.

“You'll probably kill me if I say no. You don't want Luke Skywalker to have me.” Vander looked towards his hand. The swelling was down, aided by the bacta his mom had given him, and the droid was nearly finished with the thin cast that would keep him from worsening the damage while it healed. “So, in the end, it's either don't join you and die, or join you and only probably die. The positive is that my parents won't die right along with me if I say yes.”

His parents looked at Ren, curious to see how he would respond. He did not disappoint.

“I would take no pleasure in killing you.”

That time, Vander did laugh. The sound was bright and sharp, and his throat throbbed painfully in its wake.

“But you would. Gotcha.”

“Nothing about this is okay,” Vee interjected. “You're not wrong, Vander. He isn't giving you any choices.”

“I can't allow any of you to aid the Resistance.” An uneasy quiet settled over everyone in the garage. The room was silence from floor to ceiling except for the blow of filtered air coming in through the vents on the walls and the whirring of the droid's tools. “The decision may be between the First Order and death, but that is a decision, no matter how unfavorable.”

Gilt shoved a new gas cartridge into his blaster. “I'm not in the business of dying, so you all know where I stand.”

“Vander lives one way and dies the other.” Er-Dakk's voice dropped, his face softening as much as it possibly could. “I couldn't care less about politics.”

It was Vee who stood her ground, who stared Kylo Ren right in his mask and shook her head. “How do we know you won't just have us killed? That would be easy enough, wouldn't it? You know where we live. You know what we look like. You could send a buncha stormtroopers down on us and wipe us out without Vander even knowing.”

“Your deaths would mean nothing to the First Order.”

Vander looked Ren up and down. His words didn't sound like a threat; they sounded more like an attempt at comfort, an attempt at softening something that could not be softened. 'You mean nothing to us,' wasn't a warning in this case. It was confirmation that all would be well if they fell into line.

Once the droid confirmed that the cast was complete, Vander stood.

“So if I go with you, my parents... what? Get to stay behind on Nar Shaddaa with the Hutt Cartel out for their blood?”

“Our departure would be an opportunity for them to leave.”

That got Gilt's attention. He slammed his blaster back down on the table, making a point not to damage it too severely. “I've been on Nar Shaddaa for longer than either of you have been around. This is home, alright? I'm not leaving.”

Vander opened his mouth with an argument on his tongue, but Ren spoke first.

“I am willing to supply you with enough credits to purchase a ship and relocate to Corellia.”

The Devaronian paused, and so did everyone else as they waited for him to shoot back with his usual snarky comeback.

Instead, he gave a vague shrug and went back to working on his weapon. “Corellia's not bad. Dunno why you want us there, but much as I'm not in the business of dying, I don't get paid to ask questions, either.”

Vee rolled her eyes. “Then I will. Why do you want us on Corellia?”

His response came more easily than anyone expected. And it was the short and honest truth rather than the double talk and non-answers they'd received from Luke Skywalker so many years ago. “The First Order has an established group of sympathizers on the planet, led by the proprietress of KulRay Manufacturing.”

“And they'll be safe there?” Vander's brow furrowed. “I'm not just letting them walk into some kind of trap?”

“Like I said, their deaths wouldn't aid the First Order in any way.”

Staring at the crossroads ahead of him was like staring at the sun. Vander wanted nothing more than to look away, shield his eyes, and pretend it wasn't there. He wanted Kylo Ren to fail at his task and never find him. But there was no use in wanting any of those things; they would never happen. It was impossible. All he could do was choose and hope that his decision didn't get the people he loved killed.

He didn't know much about the First Order. No one did. They weren't a threat until they were. Politicians floundered, struggling to repair the bridges the First Order burned for them, and the Resistance did what they could to outplay them. But everything was taking a turn for the worse with the recent destruction of the Hosnian system.

If he could keep his family safe by aligning himself with the remnants of the Empire, it was the only clear choice.

“Then I'll come with you,” Vander said suddenly. “The Republic isn't on Nar Shaddaa. You are. The Republic didn't kill Aggesh. You did.”

Ren gave a slow nod. Vander bit his lip to keep from frowning.

“So where are we going?” There was a forced levity in his voice that made it almost painful to listen to. “I hope it's better than this place. The air quality is terrible.”

Before Ren could answer him, static filled the garage followed by an unfamiliar voice. A controlled sort of terror hinged every word. “Captain Phasma, sir. The docking bay has been breached.”

Everyone's attention shifted to the chromium-clad stormtrooper. She held her wrist to the mouthpiece of her helmet. “Report, FN-2210.”

“Twenty-one hostiles of varying species.” Blaster fire followed his response, both incoming and returning. Gilt leaned a little in his chair. Er-Dakk moved closer to Phasma. They were both curious, but there were none more curious than Kylo Ren, who strode to her side. “Mercenaries of unknown origin, armed with blaster rifles and vibroblades. We will hold for as long as we can.”

“Hold for longer than that, soldier.” Phasma's orders were as strong as they were convincing. “Keep the transport safe, and kill them all.”

“Have you contacted Lockind?”

FN-2210 was quick to respond despite his situation after hearing Kylo Ren's voice across the comlink. “No, my lord.”

“Do that. Now.”

Vander rushed over. “Don't bother,” he told them, pressing past Er-Dakk to get within range of the comlink. “Those mercenaries belong to the Cartel. Lockind can't do anything. The Spaceport has a no interference policy when it comes to the Hutts.”

Behind them, Gilt spoke up. “I have guns.”

Vander grinned, crooked and confident, his worries momentarily forgotten. “We have guns.”  


* * *

  
Deucalon Spaceport was familiar and unfamiliar.

It was nothing like the ports the First Order used. It was chaos and color and sound. Every inch of the place was an overpowering assault on the senses. Phasma was more comfortable surrounded by blacks, whites, and reds. She longed for order, for organized lines and a professional silence.

Even still, every civilian spaceport looked the same, and she knew it. Alien species from across the galaxy roamed every which way, ignorant to any but themselves or so engrossed in loud conversation that others were forced to move around them. Cantina advertisements boasted neon lights flickering in appealing shapes. Occasionally, a labor droid passed, sweeping up discarded trash and depositing it into wide-brimmed bins around the area.

Nar Shaddaa was bawdier than Corellia and brighter than Eufornis Major, but the details were the same.

The only difference was that this time... they were being fired upon.

Hutt mercenaries were as ruthless as they were disordered. Anyone in the Deucalon Spaceport was past, present, or future prey, whether they were involved in the altercation involving Aggesh the Hutt or not.

A Nautolan female rushed out of the spaceport with both hands held to her hip, a smear of blood covering a good portion of her lower stomach. She passed close enough to Bupvija for the woman to hand her a roll of bacta bandages from the bag at her side.

The interior was no better. With every passing moment, the scent of blood and expended gas cartridges grew more dense. Missed shots left every open surface scarred or smoldering, and those that made contact left bodies, dead or dying. They weren't efficient, but they were capable enough.

“Docking Bay 9,” Phasma reminded those around her as they passed through the wide corridor, weapons at the ready. The unsteady hum of Ren's lightsaber wasn't much of a comfort, but at least she knew everyone was prepared to fight.

She turned a corner, saw an armed man standing a few yards away, and shot. The mercenary fell, half on top of his latest victim and half slumped to the floor. As they passed, the fallen civilian reached out to take a handful of her cloak. He was Rattataki, all pale gray skin and purple tattoos and _red_.

“They're here for you,” he muttered, no better than a slurred curse. “Hope they get what they came for.”

Phasma tugged her cloak away with a sweep of her arm, staring down at him through her helmet. She was primed to speak, but the man was dead before she could make a sound. The group continued down the corridor, even as Er-Dakk stopped to prop the man up higher against the wall and remove the mercenary from on top of him.

“Hutts are scum,” Gilt murmured to himself. “You screw them over, and they'll wipe out a whole Sector just to find you.”

“Which ends up screwing them right back,” Vander finished.

Gilt chuckled humorlessly. “Funny how that works.”

“Hilarious,” Phasma said through gritted teeth.

While the spaceport was far from labyrinthine, it was vast and took precious minutes to navigate. Phasma and Kylo Ren led the group, while Gilt, Vander, and Briayl followed, eyes in front of them as well as eyes behind. They'd lost contact with the stormtroopers holding the transport long before they even reached Deucalon. Even Vander's attempts to contact Lockind and Rulva were fruitless.

Going in blind was the last thing Phasma wanted, but there were no alternatives.

As they passed by Docking Bay 8, they heard a distinctive rumble up ahead—the rumble of an Upsilon-class vessel being brought to life.

“If they leave...” Ren said. Completing the threat was unnecessary; it was implied.

“They're not hijacking you,” Bubvija was quick to interject. “They're just trying to throw you off. They want you dead, not stranded.”

Phasma's mouth twitched downward at the interruption. In a way, she was grateful for it, but she loathed being spoken for, especially by someone she barely knew, someone so far beneath her. “We continue as planned. Nothing has—”

As she spoke, Kylo Ren planted his feet more firmly on the tiled floor and raised his saber in a defensive position. Phasma turned, silently cursing her helmet's lack of suitable peripheral vision, and raised her gun.

Before she could fire, Vander pushed past both of them and ran forward.

“Rulva!” he called out. “Vee, get an ampule! She's been shot!”  


* * *

  
The usual vibrant green of the Mirialan woman's cheeks had paled to mint. She held onto Vander's arm as he eased her down against the wall, whining low in her throat at the pain. Vee saw to her as quickly as she could, injecting a small amount of bacta into the wound on her thigh before wrapping it with bandages.

“It's been a long day,” Rulva said, her voice barely a sigh. Resting her head back against the wall, she shut her eyes and smiled. The bacta hit her like it hit everyone else—in a rush of pleasure and _peace_. “Hutts are bastards.”

“That's what I've been saying.” Gilt squatted down beside her, dusting some of her hair away from her face. “You okay, kid?”

She nodded, but Vander wasn't convinced.

“What if they get reinforcements? We can't leave her out here.”

Rulva flapped a weak-wristed hand in his direction. “It's fine. They'll probably think I'm dead anyway.”

Vander's brows flattened. “That's not exactly comforting, Ru.”

“You've gotta get in there. There's, like, twenty of them. They've got Lockind, too, as if that means anything. Vix and Reloo were with them. I don't know if they've killed them yet or not. I managed to sneak out behind some of the droids, but they were too close to do the same.” She opened her eyes just enough for Vander to see them, hazy and lilac. “You've probably noticed by now that I'm not asking questions about why you're with the First Order.”

Reaching out with both hands, Vander gave her shoulders a pat. “I'll tell you some other time.”

She smiled again, this one stronger than the last, and nodded.

As he stood, Captain Phasma shared her strategy.

“Kill them before they call for reinforcements. They're expecting two men, perhaps three. No more than four.” She looked to Briayl and then to Gilt and then to the stormtrooper at her side. “We will enter through the front. You three will remain on the upper platform.”

Her helmet swiveled as she shifted her attention from Ren to Vander to Er-Dakk. “We will be on the ground floor. Anyone _not_ wielding a lightsaber will follow behind Ren to avoid being shot before you're within range.”

Finally, her gaze settled upon Vee. “You will go wherever you're needed.”

“Oh, trust me. I know.” Vee patted the pack of medical supplies at her hip before reaching for her blaster, one of Gilt's hold-outs they found scattered around the garage. “This isn't my first spaceport shootout.”

What would have struck anyone else as odd seemed to comfort the captain.

From the floor, Rulva sent them off with a dreamy, “Good luck.”

The members of the First Order were heading into unfamiliar terrain against an unfamiliar enemy. Vander knew the spaceport better than anyone there. He knew every intimate detail about the docking bays: how they were organized, how they were constructed, how they were managed. His parents were familiar with them, too, having traveled through Deucalon on multiple occasions. They would prove to be competent. Worthy allies, Vander hoped.

A trail of bodies led them right to the turbolift leading up to Docking Bay 9. They were fewer in number along the way, but that did little to lessen the tension in the group.

As they approached the sliding doors, Kylo Ren stopped out ahead of them and deactivated the lightsaber. The dimly lit chamber drained of red light, and Vander bit down hard on his bottom lip as he stepped forward onto the turbolift.

With the illumination from the corridor behind him being blocked by Phasma and Er-Dakk, he might as well have put on a blindfold.

He felt a large, familiar hand on his shoulder, a small comfort in his state of near-blindness.

“Can we hurry this up?” Vander asked in a small voice. “Can't see.”

He both felt and heard Kylo Ren turn around in front of him. The man's cloak brushed the back of his hand. In the near total darkness, his voice was everything, low and resonant, pressing in on Vander's ears. “You've never been able to.”

Vander's brow furrowed, and he took a short step back. The width of Er-Dakk's broad chest stopped him from taking another. “Yeah, I get it. We knew each other. Let's just focus on this right now, alright?”

From even farther behind him, he heard Gilt's voice as the doors closed. “This place needs better turbolifts. I'm not even Hapan, and I can't see for shit.”

Vee laughed, and so did Er-Dakk. Even Briayl chuckled. Everyone else stood as still as stone, waiting for the turbolift to surge upwards. When it did, Vander reached out to the side, gripping onto the handrail and shutting his eyes. His stomach sat in knots, heavy with anxiety at their situation.

Aggesh's gladiators were nothing compared to what was waiting for them in Docking Bay 9.

They fought animals. Most of them were fresh out of combat, half-high from the bacta swabbed into their wounds. Hutt Cartel mercenaries were trained to fight people, not animals, and they were vicious. No one wanted to be on the bad side of a Hutt for a reason.

“We are so screwed,” Vander murmured to himself, body rocking on his feet as the turbolift began its quick ascent.

“Have a little faith.” It was Briayl, and she sounded cheerier than anyone should be in their predicament. “I've never fought Hutt mercs, but they've never fought a Knight of Ren, either. Much less two. They won't know what to do with us.”

Despite himself, Vander gave a huff of a laugh.

“I hope you're right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just sending out a sincere thank you to everyone who's been keeping up with this fic so far. I know how difficult following along with unfinished longfics can be, so it means a lot that you are interested in taking the time to stay tuned in to Kylo and Vander's journey. Things'll be picking up even more soon. I can't wait to give them the opportunity for some one-on-one time.
> 
> I've settled on something of a schedule when it comes to updating. Rather than updating on certain days of the week, I take two days to write and refine a chapter, one day to do edits and rewrites, and then take a rest day to collect myself before writing again. So, unless something comes up, every four days, I'll be posting a chapter! 
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos, the bookmarks, and the comments! ❤


	6. Chapter V: Awe, Probably

As Briayl anticipated, the Hutt Cartel mercenaries weren't trained to fight Knights of Ren.

Even the older mercs had never been presented with the opportunity to fight someone with Force abilities. The younger ones were only equipped with stories about them, tales that didn't even come close to representing what it might truly be like to go up against someone like Ren.

Or someone like her.

Kylo Ren emerged from the turbolift onto the raised communications platform. Three figures stood around the console. Two humans clad in dark green and tan tech uniforms monitored the controls. An armored male Trandoshan watched the doors for any sign of an intrusion, and when he saw the cloaked and hooded figure of the man he'd been warned about, he raised his rifle and aimed at his chest.

“They're—”

Ren lifted his free hand, gloved fingers curling in a gesture that lifted the alien onto the toes of his boots.

Rather than pulling the mercenary in his direction, he sent him sprawling to the ground at his side. The Trandoshan tumbled, skidding painfully over the plush carpet, before landing at Briayl's feet.

Staring down into the face of a very surprised alien, she gave him an open-mouthed smile before firing off a shot with her blaster pistol.

Gilt and Phasma didn't give the humans a chance to turn around.

Their weapons discharged in unison, and the two slumped onto the ground, neutralized before they could give off another cry of alarm.

The rest wouldn't be so easy.

Vander launched himself forward, around Phasma and past Ren, hurrying towards the corner of the platform where three figures sat on their knees, heads bowed. He went down to the ground in front of the first, shaking the Rodian's bent shoulders. Beside them, the male Twi'lek shifted in the stun cuffs that held his hands together behind his back.

“Reloo!” Vander's face held an expression somewhere between pleasure and confusion. “You're alive. That's—that's good.”

“Don't bother with Vix,” Reloo murmured, voice hoarse. “I think Lockind's just unconscious, but Vix... He's been dead for a while now.”

Vander's hands fell away, and his five uninjured fingers curled into a fist against his thigh.

“We'll get you both out of here,” he told him. “Rulva's safe. You will be, too.”

Stepping over the Trandoshan's bulk, Briayl moved in the direction of the console as the shouting began down below. She didn't speak Huttese, but she knew what panic sounded like in any language. The flurry of blaster shots aimed towards the platform aided in the translation.

“Quickly,” she reminded them, glancing over her shoulder at the group. “I would rather fight twenty mercenaries than forty. Or sixty. Or _eighty_.”

Ren turned towards the ramp leading down into the docking bay proper, all determination. Phasma followed. She wore a similar aura, heavy around her shoulders, brighter and fiercer than a cloak.

“I'll cover you,” Briayl called out. “Right after I...”

The controls were clearly marked. Some activated lights while others opened hatches on either side to let in labor droids from maintenance areas.

On the far side of the bay came a loud grinding sound, metallic in nature. The orange glow of the forcefield dissipated, and for a moment, the entire space was filled with the sounds of Nar Shaddaa. But only for a moment. Just as soon as the disappearing shield drew the attention of every mercenary in the room, it was replaced by a rapidly descending wall of pure durasteel.

Briayl grinned proudly. “Right after I do that.”

Satisfied, she moved to the platform's edge and took a knee beside Gilt, who was already busy ducking and weaving to avoid blaster shots from beneath them.

“You're good at this,” he said as he tracked one of the mercenaries with his blaster, one eye squinted and the other one wide. “Vander might be safer with you lot than on Nar Shaddaa.”

“Doubtful.” Briayl followed suit. She found a Rattataki with a nice, big head, and followed him. “He's bound to get into more trouble with us.”

Gilt laughed. “Doubtful.”  
  


* * *

  
Below, the bulk of the mercenaries armed with blaster rifles sought to remove the greatest threat from the field. They fired upon Ren only to watch as he deflected the shots with well-timed swings of his lightsaber, sending the beams of light and heat down into the floor or back into their faces. They dodged the ricocheted shots only to repeat their efforts, focusing instead on those following him.

Phasma returned fire. The fighters were stationary in a way the gladiators weren't, half-hidden behind cover as impenetrable as it was improvised. And even when the shots did hit, they sent a wave of energy around them in a sphere rather than piercing their armor.

“The gunners are armed with personal energy shields,” she observed, notes of frustration evident in her voice. She fired off another shot. It impacted a human's shield with a spark of light that rippled outwards, like rain hitting the surface of a lake. “Focus on the melee fighters until we can get close enough to remove them ourselves.”

“Why didn't we think of that?” Vander lifted his blaster as Er-Dakk activated his electrostaff. “I feel like we probably should have thought about that.”

Ren spun his lightsaber, deflecting a blaster rifle's shot into the thigh of an incoming merc. The pain slowed her rather than stopping her completely. She reached for the vibroknife at her side and flung it with a practiced accuracy. Not at Ren, but at his support.

Behind them, Bupvija shouted Vander's name, but it was Er-Dakk's bicep that took half an inch of the blade, kept from disabling him by the thick fabric of his battle suit.

“Less talking,” Er-Dakk said with a grunt before pulling Vander back to where he'd been standing moments before. He tugged the knife out of his arm and tossed it aside.

Despite his shaken state, Vander fired off two blaster shots into the mercenary's torso. One impacted her hip, sending her a painful step back, while the other left a smoking wound in her stomach.

“You know, people keep telling me that,” he said, eyes darting from mercenary to mercenary, looking for another vibroknife. “I'll take it into consideration.”

Phasma finished the brawler off with a shot to her forehead.

“Do.”

The docking bay was huge, but the Hutt Cartel force occupied less than a quarter off it, concentrated around the shuttle's loading ramp and unwilling to be uprooted from that spot. They held where the stormtroopers could not. They took hits and returned them, unharmed by Phasma and Vander's attempts at blasting their personal shields into submission. The devices could only absorb so much energy before they shorted out.

The Hutts spared no expense when it came to arming their forces; weapons and armor were two things they gave their men in excess.

The breastplates of their suits likely sported cortosis-weave, making it nearly impossible to blast them in the chest. Their blaster rifles were heavy and fired in rapid bursts rather than the single shot weapons Vander and Phasma carried.

Four bodies lay sprawled out at their feet. One stormtrooper's armor had been torn asunder by a vibroblade, the gleaming white muddied by the dark red and rust of drying blood. Another sat half-propped against the interior of the shuttle with a shattered comlink in his hand.

“Behind me,” Phasma directed Vander as a line of mercenaries prepared to take another few shots at them.

Ren was distracted with a group of his own. Even blocked by Phasma's height and her broad shoulders, he could hear the hiss and hum of his lightsaber cleaving through the air and through armor and through flesh.

Unprotected by the blade, Vander took heed of the chromium-clad captain's orders and stepped behind her, shielded from head to toe by her form.

To his right, a Rattataki brawler decided that was an opportunity to flank them. He dashed forward with surprising speed, vibroblade held aloft. His massive size put him on level with Phasma, forcing Vander to tilt his head back to look up at him as he made his quick approach.

He forced all of his weight into the swing of his weapon. It cut through the air, cleaving behind only afterimages of the mullinine blade.

Before the merc could slice into Vander's torso, a blaster shot from behind stopped him short. His momentum sent him to the floor in a twisted mess of armor. The blade passed close enough for Vander to feel a rush of air against his face, and he pressed flush against Phasma's back, eyes wide.

Er-Dakk twisted around. The sound of a body hitting the floor distracted him from his grapple with another brawler. But even that was not enough to give the young man an upper hand in the fight.

Upon realizing the body did not belong to Vander but one of the Hutt Cartel mercenaries, relief brought him a newfound strength. He forced the man onto a knee, their weapons sliding against each other hilt-to-hilt, double-bladed vibrostaff to electrostaff.

Pulling away, Er-Dakk reared back and slammed the illuminated head of his weapon into the side of the man's face.

Electricity crawled in tiny, purple arcs over his skin, but it was the power behind the blow that killed him. His neck twisted at an unnatural angle, and he went limp, falling not far from the Rattataki.

From the canopy, Gilt gave a whistle loud enough to be heard over the persistent blaster fire. Soon after, they heard the fizzle-pop of a personal shield overloading and one of the gunners dropped, body slumping over the line of improvised cover he shared with four of his fellow mercenaries.

As the Cartel's numbers thinned from somewhere in the twenties to the teens, Vander grew more and more impatient. He occasionally popped out from behind Phasma to fire a few shots into one of the gunners' personal shields, but he was capable of little else in his position.

The brawlers focused their attention on Er-Dakk and Kylo Ren. The former battered through them like a rancor, but the latter employed a stategy similar to the one he used at the cantina.

While his movements were no more graceful than Er-Dakk's, there was a precision and forethought present in them that put him apart from the Weequay. He avoided parrying the blades embedded with cortosis-weave, leaning away from them and forcing the unstable red column of his lightsaber's blade into the softest parts of their armor.

Vander had never seen a Jedi fight, but he never imagined they would fight like that.

Ren was a keen-edged brutality. He was a hard step and a hard cut and a hard end. He wasn't a fighter; he was a killer.

It was _exciting_.

Vander's eyes flickered from crate to crate. He knew this spaceport better than anyone else there, and he was dead set on using that to his advantage.

Cradling his cast closer to his stomach and holding his blaster firmly in the other hand, he pulled away from Phasma and darted behind a stationary loader vehicle. Blaster bolts tinged against the broad side of Vander's cover. He let out a slow breath, grateful for his small stature. It made a lot of things difficult, but hiding was easier.

Speed was another advantage, as was the distraction caused by the others. He couldn't have been dealt a better hand.

Sliding around the back of the loader vehicle, he glanced towards the shuttle. Anywhere from three to five gunners stood on either side of the transport. The cover was low, but too dense to send a shot through. The moment one of them ducked behind it, they became invincible.

For the moment.

Vander moved from crate to crate, quick on his feet, too drunk on adrenaline to be overly cautious.

He reached the right side of the shuttle in a blur of black and brown. The nearest gunner whirled around only to get a crack on his jaw from the butt of Vander's blaster. Personal shielding only protected the user from energy weapons. Blunt force was another matter entirely.

Reaching down to the shield buckled onto his belt, Vander ripped the device away and hurled it aside.

The moment the shield was gone, a flash of red punctured the side of his face, searing a hole through his temple.

Whatever rush of victory Vander felt stilled in his veins when the two remaining gunners standing beside the man turned their attention towards him.

“Stupid,” he muttered to himself, heart plummeting somewhere in the vicinity of his gut. “Stupid, stupid.”

Raising his blaster, he shot once, twice, three times. Each shot rippled over the female Twi'lek's shield. Each of them until the fourth. Her shield gave a broken pop just as she raised her rifle in his direction. Instinctively, he dropped down into a squat, shielding his head with his arm as if that alone would stop him from dying.

He didn't hear a shot. Instead, he heard the spitting hum of Ren's lightsaber.

“Lucky,” Vander breathed, arm falling away as he turned his gaze upwards. A foot above his head, the saber's red blade protruded from the Twi'lek's stomach. Its light was brilliant and blinding; it's heat was no better. He wanted to look away, but something drove him to stare.

Awe, probably.

“Thanks.” He scrambled back into a standing position as Ren removed his lightsaber from the gunner's gut, giving him no reply. Vander felt the urge to shout the word a second time, but decided to bite his tongue instead, turning towards the cover and raising his blaster to rest on the top of the crate.

His new position boasted another advantage.

Firing off an unnecessary number of shots into the broad back of another Trandoshan brawler, Vander gave a little laugh as the alien fell forward at Phasma's feet. His double-bladed vibrostaff skittered over the floor before slamming into the wall. “I was getting tired of softening them up for—” He glanced in Ren's direction only to realize he had already turned away. “—you. Right.”

“Might as well get used to this,” he muttered to himself. “It's gonna be a long year.”  
  


* * *

  
With each passing moment, Kylo Ren became less convinced the man with the blaster and the deathwish was Hallam Nek.

Thirteen years could change a person, but could time change everything they were?

While his memories of Hallam were faded at the edges, some retained a worrying clarity. For the most part, Leader Snoke's lessons on sentiment found their mark. They drained the color from the faces of his fellow students. They aided him in forgetting the scent of his mother's hair. They loosened his grip on the past, and he was glad for it.

But he remembered Hallam.

He remembered the soft-spoken Hapan boy with the dark eye and the light.

The boy was gone, replaced by the shameless Vander Syl, familiar by sight and sight alone.

Frustration threatened to boil him from the inside out. He heated not knowing for sure, and he hated Skywalker for making certainty an impossibility. The smugglers could have lied. When pressed, anyone in the galaxy would be willing to boast a connection to Luke Skywalker, the Rebel hero, another in a long line of negligent Jedi.

Ren curled his hand tighter around the hilt of his lightsaber, focusing on the kyber crystal's constant, unsteady vibration to ease the tension in his shoulders.

A handful of Cartel mercenaries remained. Fear replaced the confidence on their faces, and one reached for the comlink on their belt, panic radiating off of them as they fumbled with the controls. They opened their mouth to speak, to request backup, to cry out for help. Ren stopped them.

Lifting his free hand, a surge of power and concentration caught the mercenary with their mouth open.

Their eyes rolled in his direction, the whites gleaming in the spaceport's bright overhead lighting.

Ren's fingers twitched. Control of their body returned to them all of a sudden, and they crumpled to the floor in their surprise. The comlink shot towards Ren's outstretched hand, but it never reached its destination.

A blaster bolt took it out mid-air. What Ren caught was nothing but smoking, useless technology.

His eyes followed where the bolt had come from to see Phasma standing there, rifle raised. Anyone else might have been impressed.

Casting the destroyed comlink aside, Ren turned his attention to the fallen mercenary and the man who stood behind them. They both wore the distinct scent of terror that grew more pungent as he approached.

For a moment, Ren thought they might even give themselves up to him.

He was wrong.

From the floor, the gunner drew their blaster rifle and fired twice into his chest. The heat from the shots bloomed over his breastplate, a recent precaution, and succeeded in doing little else. Behind his mask, Ren's mouth split into an uncomfortable smile.

One heavy swing of his saber removed the mercenary's blaster hand at the wrist. The second sliced through their elbow and a good portion of their stomach. It wasn't enough to kill, but it was more than enough to make them sob a scream.

Forcing his foot down onto their thigh, pinning them in place, the third swing removed their head from their shoulders.

He looked towards the remaining mercenary before letting out a ragged breath.

The gunner took a few steps back, tripping over another of his fallen compatriots, stumbling into Er-Dakk's broad chest. The Weequay curled an arm around the man's shoulders and hauled him upwards, off of his feet, dangling in front of Ren like prey.

“Did you plan a tracking device on this transport?” Ren asked as he closed in on the young man.

The mercenary kicked, pleading in twisted half-Basic, half-Huttese, hands pawing at Er-Dakk's arm as he tightened his grip. His struggling stopped when Ren raised his lightsaber and held it inches from his face.

The column of red plasma sizzled closer to the man's face. Ren repeated himself. “Did you plant a tracking device on this transport?”

“I didn't!”

“Did _anyone_?”

“We didn't—” Again, Basic interrupted by Huttese. More words he didn't know. Anger drove the blade even closer to the gunner's face. The volume of his voice spiked, strained and terrified and broken in places. “—with the other guys!”

Er-Dakk translated. “He says the other guys have the beacon.”

“'Other guys'?”

The gunner rambled more quickly then, body gone fiery hot from the lightsaber's proximity. He cringed away from it and spoke with his eyes closed.

“Says the Hutts knew better than to just send in a couple of their people,” Er-Dakk told him. “There are more coming.”

“How many?”

Ren watched Er-Dakk's face as he listened to the mercenary. Understanding became amusement became resignation.

“Forty or more.” Conveying bad news to someone like Ren was never a good idea. After spending over twenty years serving Aggesh, Er-Dakk knew how to manipulate situations in order to survive. “Though he had a lot more to say than that. I don't think he wants me to translate it.”

“Drop him,” Ren demanded.

The gunner was dead by the time he hit the ground.  
  


* * *

  
Every single Hutt Cartel mercenary was dead in a heap or in pieces.

There hadn't been much of a challenge. There were a few close calls, sure, and his dad was bleeding from his bicep, but their side suffered no casualties. Apparently, the lethality of the Cartel was in their numbers, and those numbers would be doubling within the next few minutes unless they figured out how to get out.

Vander rushed to Kylo Ren's side. Er-Dakk seemed surprised, but happy to see him. Ren only turned slightly in his direction, attention given to him in parts.

“There's another exit.” He gestured in the direction of the far wall. “We can use that to get out of here.”

“ _They_ can use that to get out of here,” Ren corrected him.

Right.

Vander rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. It wasn't as if he'd forgotten about their agreement. He just wasn't expecting to leave yet. He wasn't ready to leave yet.

“Yeah, you can use that exit. It'll take you through droid maintenance. You should be able to get out that way.”

“The turbolift needs to be disabled,” Ren said, voice clipped behind his mask.

Without another word, he stepped over the bodies littering the floor and moved in the direction of the canopy.

Vander glanced at Er-Dakk, who managed a shallow shrug before reaching out with his good arm. “Can't say it's gonna get any easier,” he murmured, low enough to be shared between the two of them rather than the three. “It probably won't. But you can do this. You've dealt with us for a long time.”

“I didn't _deal_ with you.” Vander leaned into him, comforted by Er-Dakk's halfway embrace despite the smell of blood that lingered around his wound. “You're my parents. You and Vee and Gilt are everything I have.”

“ _Were_ everything you _had_ ,” Er-Dakk said. Vander's annoyed look at his correction got a chuckle out of him. “You've got more than us now.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I'm practically spoiled.”

Up ahead of them, making her way down the ramp as they made their way up, Vee grinned. Now that the fight was over, she looked more excited than worried. The skin around her cheeks deepened into a dark purple, and the laugh lines around her mouth grew more pronounced with every passing moment. Still, something in the smile looked painful.

“At least you don't have to listen to any of Gilt's ridiculous smuggler stories anymore.”

Er-Dakk broke out into a similar smile, a strained “I'm-smiling-to-keep-from-frowning” grin that made Vander feel like he was already on the shuttle, already gone.

“I've always liked his stories,” Vander said, defensive.

“That's 'cause they're great stories!” shouted the disembodied voice of his father from deeper inside of the platform.

By the time they reached the top of the ramp, Lockind was conscious, Ren was pacing, and Briayl was already at work at the console. Her fingers moved over the buttons and switches, eager to decipher which of them would delay the Cartel mercenaries and give them the opportunity to retreat.

From the looks of it, Lockind was worse off than Vix. Dark, multicolored bruising covered the skin around his cybernetics, split in places, bleeding in others. He groaned, shoving away Gilt's attempts to help with a sheet. “I am _fine_ ,” he bit out. “I'm... Ah, there's more coming, isn't there?”

“Yeah, and you won't be fine if they show up,” Gilt said as he forced the issue, stabbing Lockind in the thigh with a bacta injection from Vee's pack. “Tell us how to stop them.”

Lockind blinked a few times, eyes going in and out of focus before they finally settled on Briayl.

“You can't shut the turbolift down from there. It's on another system entirely.”

The Knight of Ren's hands stopped moving.

Ren's reaction to the news was markedly more violent.

Striding over to the turbolift, Kylo Ren activated his lightsaber before driving it into the lift's closed doors. White-hot plasma melted the metal doors inch by inch, allowing the saber to sink in to the hilt.

Once it did, the doors fell open, revealing the chute. Ren stepped closer to the edge, swinging his saber without a single thought towards precision. He scored the turbolift's innards with slashes of glowing orange that faded to black, destroying the mechanisms inside with every heavy swing of his blade.

Only Phasma and Briayl seemed unfazed by Ren's outburst. Everyone else watched in various states of shock as the impact of his saber spat sparks onto the floor and into the fabric of his robes. There was nothing for any of them to say. At least the turbolift was destroyed.

Once he was satisfied, Ren thumbed the activation stud on the hilt of his lightsaber and stood with his back to the others, shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath.

“There is another exit,” Ren told them without turning around, repeating Vander's thought from earlier down to the word. “You will leave through there.”


	7. Chapter VI: The Finalizer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **How to Not Make Friends:** a novel by Vander Syl, forward by Kylo Ren.

Goodbyes were hard, but the hardest of them were rushed.

Vander looked from face to face—from Gilt to Vee to Er-Dakk, to Reloo and to Lockind. They all stared at him expectantly, and that uniform look of 'what now' made him feel lost. It carved out a hole where his words would have been. It made his heart race in a different way from adrenaline; it was a painful, tumbling roll downhill rather than a sprint.

“I don't—” he started, stopped, and started again. “You guys never taught me how to do this right.”

A smile broke out onto Vee's face. That relaxed him a little. “That's because we never really went away.”

“And when we did,” Gilt said, rubbing over the back of his neck. He wore the most uncomfortable of expressions. In that moment, Vander realized where he'd inherited the inability to healthily express his emotions. Thanks, dad. “We didn't really do... this.” He gestured between them. “Ever.”

At his back, Phasma and her stormtrooper idled silently. They were more patient than Briayl, who still stood by the console. Once she retracted the massive durasteel wall blocking the exit, she began flicking switches and pushing the more inconsequential buttons, causing doors to open and lights to flicker along the faraway walls of the docking bay.

All the while, Ren prowled the upper deck like a nexu in a cage. His fingers curled in their gloves like claws, threatening.

Vander tracked him with his eyes for a long moment before he realized what he was doing.

They only had so much time... or so little.

“I'll see you again!” The words burst out of him, eyes snapping from Ren to his mother, to his father, to his dad. He couldn't decipher their expressions to save his life. Were they proud? Were they just being brave for his sake? Were they as afraid as he was? “I'm sure I'll have time. Or we'll end up on the same planet. Or something.”

It was Er-Dakk who stepped forward and brought Vander into his arms. His embrace was as warm as it was firm, and he pressed his face into his shoulder, letting out a long sigh before pulling back with a smile.

Even though he met Er-Dakk in his late teens, the Weequay man was just as much his dad as Gilt was. He'd given him just as much as the other two.

Each of them had loaned pieces of themselves to the lost boy. After so many years, he could identify those pieces as easily as thumbing over a bone.

Gilt was humor. Vee was smarts. Er-Dakk was warmth.

In a way, he'd be carrying all three of them into the belly of the First Order.

Vander grinned, glancing around Er-Dakk's shoulder to look at Gilt. “Corellia, right?”

The Devaronian grasped at the opportunity to shirk sentiment in favor of boasting with both hands. “I'm sure I'll fit right in.” Throwing a thumb in Ren's direction, he followed that up with a wry, “That is, if our friend here keeps up his end of the bargain.”

“The credits will be forwarded into your account.” Ren's helmet shifted between each of them. “I assume you will be safe until the transaction is complete.”

Vee shot him a look that couldn't have been more different than the one she aimed at Vander. It was all narrowed eyes with a smirk that tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Of course we will be. You're the one who got us into this mess, but we're more than capable of cleaning it up.”

Ren's hand tightened around the hilt of his lightsaber.

Her smirk faded.

“We'll be fine,” she said, turning towards Vander again with another of her forced smiles. But what was intended to comfort only set him ill-at-ease. He wagered he wouldn't be convinced they were fine until he saw them safe on Corellian soil. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

“I will,” he said. He smiled, too, and by their reaction, he could tell it was a crummy one.

Behind him, Briayl flipped all of the lights back on and leaned away from the console with a sudden, “We have to go.”

Phasma and the stormtrooper turned and descended to the docking bay proper. Briayl stepped over the bodies of the human technicians and followed them, casting one look back at everyone there before continuing in their wake.

Ren lingered, occasionally glancing towards the turbolift. The sounds of frustrated yelling and even more frustrated blaster bolts echoed up the chute. Huttese mingled with Basic mingled with the occasional roar in Shyriiwook. Briayl was right; they needed to go.

 _He_ needed to go.

“It'll be soon!” Vander insisted. His voice cracked, threatening to betray him. He wasn't ready. He woke up that morning in the same bed he'd used for over a decade, and he'd be falling asleep in a different one. A homesick feeling rolled through him at the thought, even standing in the Nar Shaddaa spaceport. “We'll see each other again soon. It'll be fine. You'll be fine. I'll be fine.”

He took a step forward, but decided against it. If he hugged Er-Dakk again, if Vee kissed his cheek, if Gilt ruffled his hair, he wouldn't be able to leave.

 _Love you_.

Tonguing the words in his mouth, Vander took a step back, settling for a wave before turning and rushing down the ramp.

His muscles ached against his intent, eager to run back up to the platform, eager to be back with the three of them. But there was a barrier standing between them now, a forbidding wall in the shape of Kylo Ren. If he kept moving forward, he would have the opportunity to circle back around eventually. If he turned back now, he never would.

“Get that hand taken care of!” Vee shouted before he was out of earshot.

Gilt followed her advice with some of his own. “And don't do anything stupid!”  


* * *

  
Kylo Ren stared across the shuttle at Vander Syl.

The man was a puzzle if there ever was one, and despite being more concerned about his eventual meeting with Leader Snoke, Ren's mind kept going back to him. Every train of thought looped back around to a single point—to Vander, to Hallam, to the man seated across from him.

He looked sick rather than scared, which was a start. His eyes trekked in slow circles around the cabin, back and forth, up and down, scanning over every detail. It was obvious that Vander had never been inside of a vessel like this one. Few in the Republic had. The ones who were alive during the Galactic Civil War had likely kept to the land, hoping with everything they had to never step inside of an Imperial ship no matter the size.

But this was only the beginning.

Soon, he would be on the _Finalizer_.

The _Upsilon-_ class command shuttle was a fleck against the wash of black that was a _Resurgent_ -class Star Destroyer. A fly on the back of a fierce creature.

Going from the tumult of Nar Shaddaa to the structure of the First Order would likely be difficult for him, but he hadn't flown down to the planet's surface to fail. Arrangements had been made before departure. There was a room in one of the many officers' wings meant for him and a protocol droid that would be his guide while learning the layout of the ship. If that didn't suit, there were changes to be made. Comfort felt much like acceptance, and acceptance could persuade a person to go to great lengths.

“So have you ever been off Nar Shaddaa?” Briayl asked from a few seats over, legs crossed, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her fingers worked at the strands, separating them into sections before braiding them again. “That you know of.”

Vander blinked as if to clear his head. “I, uh... Once or twice? Nothing major. Gilt took me up in his ship when I was a kid.”

“Just when you were a kid?”

Tapping his fingers over his knees, Vander's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “The Republic shot him down right over Hosnian Prime about...” He counted his fingertips. “Two years ago. He lost his ship and a leg and almost his life.”

Briayl pursed her lips. “That explains a few things.”

A confused look spread over Vander's face before a sort of realization came over him. “Oh! Right. Yeah, he's not a big fan of the Republic. He wasn't a big fan of the Empire, either.” He laughed to himself, and Ren watched as a dimple carved into one of his cheeks. Familiarity lanced through him. He smothered the feeling as quickly as it rose. “He's a big fan of credits.”

“And if the Republic gave him a better offer?”

Vander looked to Ren. His brows furrowed. “He's not _just_ doing this for the money you offered him. It's a little 'cause of the credits, but he's doing it for me, too.”

Parents willing to align with the First Order for the safety of their son.

The thought seemed ludicrous. Foreign.

“Their betrayal would reflect badly upon you,” Ren murmured, voice darkened by the rush of bitterness. There was enough heat to his words to attract Phasma's attention at the head of the shuttle. Briayl stared, too, her fingers still curled into the thick of her own hair. The words that followed came to him with the ease of remembrance, “You have too much of them in your blood.”  
  
Vander quirked a brow at him, visibly confused.

“Let me say this in a way you might understand...” Ren leaned forward, elbows poised on his knees as he did so. “The deck is stacked against you.”

Rather than standing down, Vander took the threat on his chin and stared right back at him, one piecing blue eye and one bottomless brown. “The deck's never stacked against you if you know how to cheat.”  


* * *

  
The shuttle flew smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, that Vander would have sworn they were standing still if not for the shifting stars through the front viewport.

They were surrounded by them on all sides while Nar Shaddaa grew smaller and smaller behind them, out of sight. Home grew smaller and smaller. His home, his family, his life—it was all too small to be seen, even squinting.

He'd never seen such a ship outside of old holovids. Some were ancient and others were recent history, but none of them were around anymore save for bits and pieces stowed away in museums, kept behind shields and marked as relics even though few of them were.

The Republic liked pretending the Empire was a thing of the past. The _Finalizer_ was proof positive that it was not.

“That's...” Vander exhaled with a low whistle, his eyes wide. “That's a big ship.”

“The largest of its kind.” Phasma leaned against the console, striking a few glittering red buttons with her forefinger. “Kuati in make, created for the First Order in secret. As of now, the Republic has no craft to stand against it.”

Vander knew ships, and he knew his history, and he knew the terms of the Galactic Concordance. Evidently, someone on Kuat thought the First Order was a worthy enough ally.

A crisp, accented voice filled the shuttle soon after Phasma finished her explanation.

“Docking Bay A-6 is available of landing, sir.” In the background, there was a quiet hum of people working, talking amongst themselves, hailing returning vessels not unlike their own. The only difference was that this ship carried Kylo Ren. “Good work.”

“Of course,” she replied before reaching over and flicking a few more switches. The line of communication was broken, and a quiet returned to the cabin.

Briayl stood. Her braid was just as tight as before, pulled away from her high cheekbones and the flat curve of her nose. Nothing about her indicated that she was the same person as before—the vicious shot with a mad smile, hair loose around her forehead like a dark halo. It was difficult to believe until she spoke.

She sidled up to the empty space beside Phasma at the console, hands held at the small of her own back. “So do I get anything for doing such a good job?”

“Don't bother,” Phasma told her. “Not in front of him.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Briayl looked from Ren to Vander, then back to Phasma. She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “Which one of them is 'him'?”

“Not in front of either of them,” the captain rephrased, her voice stern.

Briayl leaned in a little closer to her chromium-clad partner.

“Does that mean I can ask you later?”

Phasma cleared her throat, but she did not move away. “If you're that desperate for an answer, yes. You may ask me later.”

The Knight of Ren gave her a bold smile and remained quietly at her side. While she was nowhere near as tall as Phasma, there was a pride in her posture that made her look almost as imposing from behind. Knowing what she was capable of only added to that impression.

Out of the viewport, the _Finalizer_ grew in size with every passing moment.

As did the knot of anxiety in his stomach.

The stormtrooper piloted the shuttle with practiced care, navigating easily through the other incoming and outgoing shuttles. Landing without a scratch meant putting an end to an altogether successful mission, one where he was the only survivor when surviving at all meant things had gone well. And it had gone well.

In mere seconds, Vander would be aboard the _Finalizer_. He would be surrounded by immaculate black and gray uniforms, gleaming white armor, and the utilitarian appointments reminiscent of an Imperial vessel. He would be part of something the galaxy was afraid of.

He would be part of something he himself was afraid of, fighting for a cause he didn't wholly believe in by the side of an old friend he didn't even remember.

They docked with the gentlest of dips, like the shuttle was made of something lighter than paper, and Ren rose the moment the nose-mounted loading ramp hit the deck.

Tension returned to his form. He looked as brittle as he was lean, posture poor and limbs held tight at his side as he moved to the front of the shuttle. Dockworkers hurried in every direction, all of them turning to watch him descend for as long as they could manage. Then, they were gone again, and he was standing on the floor of the docking bay, hesitating, waiting.

Vander quickly unbuckled the belts around his waist and around his shoulders. He rushed past Briayl, past Phasma, past the stormtrooper still observing the shuttle's controls.

When he got close enough to the ramp for his boots to be heard on the metal, Ren began walking again.

His strides were long and uneven. He was quick, but he favored one side more than the other. It gave his movement a jagged appearance that matched most everything about him. Vander struggled to keep up, hurrying along in his wake, curious eyes darting around the docking bay.

This wasn't Deucalon Spaceport.

The _Finalizer_ 's docking bay was all shining black with lights of red and white, flickering and blinking over the reflective surfaces. Everything smelled unused, too clean. Even the ships carried the scent of polish rather than oil or ozone. The talk was quiet, soft work-only murmurs that stacked upon each other until Vander could scarcely hear himself think. And above it all, a sense of order that was entirely unfamiliar to him.

Across the length of the docking bay, they came upon a line of turbolifts. Ren chose one and stepped into it; Vander followed suit.

The turbolift shot upwards, forcing him to reach out and steady himself on one of its slick walls. Glancing in Ren's direction, he gave an awkward little laugh, more nerves than amusement. “So... how long did it take you to know where you were going on this thing?”

Ren didn't reply. He stood, face forward and hands at his sides, seemingly ignoring him.

When they reached their destination, the lift's doors opened, and he stepped out into the corridor. He passed close to Vander, maintaining the lack of eye contact even as he told him, “Long enough.”

Vander snorted a laugh that drew the chilly attention of a uniformed man passing down the hallway. It was an obnoxious sound, equal parts surprised and amused by Ren's comment. No wonder the officer stared down at him like he'd reached up into his angular face to give him a smack.

 _Right down the nose_ , he thought to himself.

“Is everybody here so stuffy?” he asked, voice raised just enough for the man to definitely hear as they moved in the opposite direction.

Once they were out of earshot, Ren replied with a simple, “Yes,” in a tone that spelled out one thing.

He had yet to meet the worst of them.

The hallways were as spare as the docking bay. Pure white light poured from the slender lamps that followed the ceiling. The walls were the same shade of black, but matte rather than reflective. They absorbed the light, leaving the corridor just bright enough for him to see. Unembellished doors of slate gray stood opposite each other every few feet, leading to rooms belonging to officers. Beside each, a small console that deactivated and activated the door's locks. They were all closed, all plain, all the same.

“Definitely not on Nar Shaddaa anymore,” Vander muttered to himself. Everything on Nar Shaddaa was color. Color and sound and smell, each brighter than the last. Here, the only color was a bright, blinking red.

“No, you aren't,” Ren replied, slowing in front one of the many, nondescript doors. He entered a quick code on the console's number keys. The door fell open, revealing exactly what Vander expected of his new lodging.

Stepping into the room, he gave it a cursory once over.

The bedroom took up most of the quarters, though that was hardly impressive given the room's compact size. Still, there was space enough in the bed for two... or one fitful sleeper. Connected to the room was a small seating area with a desk. Beside the desk sat a holoterminal and beside that sat a lounge chair.

Closer to the door was another door, likely leading into a refresher barely large enough for a fully grown, broad-shouldered man. It would be an interesting time, squeezing into that in the middle of the night.

In the very center of the room stood a black protocol droid.

“The room's code is 1415,” Ren told him. “The droid knows everything else.”

With that, he was gone, and Vander was left alone, staring at the droid as it activated with a whirr.

“Greetings, sir!” The droid was the shiniest 3PO model he'd ever seen. “Welcome to the _Finalizer_. Before I begin with the tour, is there anything in particular you would like to know?”

Vander flapped a hand at it, crossing the tiled floor before flopping into the bed's firm mattress face-first.

“Later,” he told it, voice muffled. “'ve got so many questions.”  


* * *

  
“Congratulations on a job well done.”

Unlike Vander, General Hux fell in alongside Ren with no issue. His strides were just as long and three times as fluid. As such, he had no problem keeping up with Ren as he snaked through the purposefully empty corridors in the direction of the private chamber reserved for communications with Supreme Leader Snoke.

While Ren was barely controlled anger, Hux was smug indifference. His congratulations echoed, empty.

“It's unfortunate that your presence on the _Finalizer_ was deemed mandatory.” They rounded a corner in unison. The path was familiar, as was the company. “I could have used you down there, general.”

Ginger brows peaked on a faintly wrinkled forehead. “Truly? You seemed—”

“No.”

Hux's nostrils flared. Everything else about his expression remained impassive, but nothing could mask the red flush that prickled at his ears. “The picture of maturity, as always, Ren.”

“And as always, your presence during these meetings is unnecessary.”

The pair stopped at the very end of the corridor. In front of them stood a larger, more imposing door than the rest. It was the sort of door no one bothered hacking, the sort of door that inspired no curiosity in passing. It was the sort of door that only evoked a sense of awe, even not knowing what went on behind it.

Ren reached for the console. This code was longer than the last by three keys.

“You lost five of my most talented soldiers within half a standard day,” Hux said as the doors slid open. “And you returned with Luke Skywalker's scraps.”

His words were meant to incite anger. They hit their mark, but they also brought forth something else.

Determination.

“I returned with an apprentice,” Ren told him without looking in his direction. He stepped into the dimly lit chamber and moved in the direction of the cold holoterminal. The room opened up around them, starlight pouring in through the thick glass walls that took up much of the far side of the chamber. “In half a day, I've done more for Leader Snoke than you were able to do with the destruction of an entire system of planets.”

The door closed, and the moment it did, the pale blue glow of a hologram dominated much of the chamber.

Ren folded his hands in front of himself, head bowed, while Hux fumed.

“I was not expecting news of your success so soon, Ren.” Snoke leaned forward on his throne, beckoning them closer with a gesture. “How did you find Skywalker's student so quickly? Curiosity begs an explanation.”

“Part of me knew where he was the moment I landed, Supreme Leader.”

Hux suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. There could be no truth in that statement. Kylo Ren was a talented Force-user, but he had his limits. He had hard limits that often set him up to fail.

“His name is Vander Syl.” Ren continued, tilting his head up to look Snoke in his bold, glistening eyes. “I beg you for the opportunity to train him myself.”

Supreme Leader Snoke's silence sent a chill into both of them. Ren's breath caught in his throat, and he tangled his gloved hands tight around each other. Snoke opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, his thoughtful expression turning his unsettling appearance momentarily serene.

When he finally spoke, his words were a victory.

“That is unnecessary, as it was my plan all along.”


	8. Chapter VII: Vander Syl

_Snoke knows._

Two words, and Kylo Ren felt his blood run cold. He felt his heart shudder in his chest, an uneasy sway not unlike the sensation of falling. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Everything around him slowed to a crawl, quieted to a whisper.

All the while, Hux stared at him expectantly.

That was what threatened to thaw him—the triumphant look on Hux's face, as vibrant as the shock of red hair on his head.

Leader Snoke repeated himself with an infinite patience.

“Who is he?”

“I knew him as Hallam Nek, but he was given a different name by the pair Skywalker left him with.” Ren refused to so much as glance in Hux's direction. If he did, he'd be confronted with feigned curiosity and that familiar self-assured glimmer in his eye. He wasn't interested in the topic in the same way Snoke was; he yearned to discover the flaws in Ren's discovery. There were none. There couldn't be any. “Now, he is Vander Syl.”

Snoke nodded thoughtfully.

The chill in the room held true.

“What sort of person was he when you knew him?” There was an appeasing note to Snoke's voice, a warmth that belied his ghoulish appearance. On any other day, that approval would have filled Ren with a sort of joy. His pleasure would have been insurmountable. “What sort of Force-user?”

On any other day.

“Our training was incomplete at the time,” Ren prefaced as he picked through what little he could gather in his head. They were innocent things, those memories. And foggy, too, save for the occasional detail. He was hesitant to share them. “From what I remember, he was strong in the Force. His training was similar to mine. While the others focused on combat, Hallam—”

Ren stopped. He pressed his lips together, jaw twitching. Behind his mask, the name was little more than a mistake, a slip of the tongue.

Collecting himself while standing at Snoke's feet took no small amount of effort. The heat of frustration eased the tension between his shoulder blades. “Vander and I, along with a few others, were trained in abilities outside of our lightsabers.”

Paired with the room's absence of light, the silence that followed rolled over him like a wave. In a moment, his successful mission could be considered a failure. All it took was one wrong step, one poorly phrased sentence, and he could be forced out with orders to kill Vander and find another student. The thought was dizzying.

Ultimately meaningless, but dizzying.

“You will train him in the Force as I have trained you,” Snoke announced. He shifted on his throne, sitting taller for all of a moment before slouching back into his usual position. Frail, curved, so unlike the voice that left his throat. He looked to Ren. “The next planet...”

“Generis.”

Luke Skywalker was unpredictable. He could be unpredictable, too.

While Skywalker visited the next planets along the map, he would scour the surface of Generis and find another student to bolster the ranks of the First Order. No matter how long it took, he would find them before his former Master. He would take them under his wing. He would show them the ways of the true Force.

Snoke nodded.

His eyes shone brighter than before. Whether the cause was pride or something else, something more sinister, Ren couldn't tell. “This mission will be more difficult than the last. If you decide to pursue this path rather than a simpler one, you will need assistance.”

“It will take some time to prepare him, but I intend to bring Syl to the surface.” The comment fell flat outside of his mouth. Both Hux and Leader Snoke regarded him with varying levels of disbelief. Ren's equilibrium seemed to shift, and his stomach twisted. But he was determined to convince Snoke that all would go according to plan. As for Hux, he only wanted to emerge higher in the Supreme Leader's esteem. Nothing else mattered. “He will help me find them. That is where I will begin his training in earnest.”

Hux took a step forward, chin tilted upwards to regard Snoke. “The boy is injured.”

“At the moment, yes,” Ren said quickly. “His hand is broken. By the time we reach Generis, the damage will be healed.” He shot Hux a look the general couldn't make out, brows furrowed and nostrils flared. “The bones broke upon a man's skull. Such an injury shouldn't be considered a weakness.”

Hux spoke without turning to regard Ren, and his words were infuriating in their simplicity: “It is.” 

Snoke interrupted the exchange before Ren could say another word.

“Have him healed, and take him with you to Generis if you so desire. His isn't the assistance I spoke of.” Snoke turned his attention from Ren to Hux. To him, he spoke with a clipped efficiency. If the pride worn openly on Hux's face was any proof, those words found their mark more easily than any spoken in a different tone. “At Generis's southern pole, there is an abandoned mine where hiridiu crystals were excavated during the Clone Wars. You will send a team to this mine and salvage whatever crystals you can.”

Hux nodded. “Of course, Supreme Leader.”

“And if any remain when the time comes for the _Finalizer_ to leave the planet behind, have the mine destroyed.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Hux's mouth.

“Yes, Supreme Leader. It would be my pleasure.”  


* * *

   
Vander woke feeling cotton-mouthed and uncomfortable.

Shifting from his stomach onto his side, he cast a look around the room to orient himself. Blinking over and over, he struggled to piece two thoughts together.

Everything ached. His hand felt stiff. Other than that, there was a fuzz where reality should have been. There was too much black for this place to be his bedroom. The flickering lights of the neon cantina sign weren't making odd shapes on the floor.

And it was quiet. Nothing on Nar Shaddaa was ever that quiet.

He was halfway through a yawn when he remembered he was with a start.

The realization was aided by the 3PO unit standing at the foot of the bed, waiting for him to show any signs of life.

“Good morning, sir!”

The droid's enthusiasm sapped him of whatever energy he managed to regenerate during sleep. He turned back onto his stomach and pressed his face into one of the two thin pillows adorning the bed. His groaned response, muffled by the pillow, worried the 3PO unit.

It took a step forward, leaning down to nudge at the sole of Vander's boot. “I am afraid I didn't quite catch that.”

Vander twisted his head just enough to repeat himself clearly.

“Said I can figure everything out on my own.”

The droid reared back, tilting its torso to mimic human surprise. “While I have no doubt you are capable of navigating the ship on your own, that will not do. I have been notified that you are expected in the medical bay within the next...” It stopped to check the time, to calculate the time remaining until he was expected. “Four hours.”

Vander's brow furrowed, and he struggled to pull himself into a seated position. Forgetting himself, he leaned on his broken hand, bending it inside the cast and sending a shot of white-hot pain up the length of his arm. He let out a string of curses, cradling the limb to his stomach, looking nearly pathetic as he felt.

He blinked, clearing his eyes. “How long did I sleep?”

“You were asleep for a total of nearly eight hours, sir.”

“Shit.”

Exhaling slowly, Vander focused on the ebbing pain. It reminded him of the fight and of everything that had happened back on Nar Shaddaa.

Aggesh was dead. The Hutt Cartel was pissed. His parents were either safe or dead, considering the lack of middle ground. One way or another, he'd managed to sleep through everything.

Getting a call in to Vee was impossible, but continuing on with his day to day without knowing if they were alive seemed just as difficult. He made a mental note to ask Ren if someone could alert him when Gilt withdrew the credits they intended to forward them.

“So...” Instead of steeping in his own worry, Vander looked back to the 3PO unit. It stood there, waiting for him to finish his thought. “What do you go by? What's your name?”

“My designation is R6-3PO,” it replied. “Given the vast nature of the ship and the importance of maintaining peace between the members of the First Order, there are twelve others like me aboard the _Finalizer_.”

“And you know everything about it?”

“I know the geography of the vessel, as well as important timetables and the ship's currently active officers.”

“Do you know my name?”

“I was not privy to that information, sir.”

“It's Vander Syl.” Folding his legs, he chanced another, more open question. “Do you know _anything_ about me?”

R6-3PO hesitated. What might have been a pause in a human was nothing but a database search for a droid. Still, Vander couldn't help but wonder if it knew anything it was unwilling to share. The possibility that it might be holding classified First Order information was a concern as much as it was a thrill.

“You were one of Luke Skywalker's students and a fellow of Kylo Ren's. I'm afraid that is all I know.”

Vander nodded slowly. Temptation wet his lips, formed words upon them. “Do you know anything about Kylo Ren?”

R6-3PO was quick to respond. “He is Master of the Knights of Ren and one of the First Order's two commanders. It would be impudent of me to share any more than that.” The droid shifted stiffly on its feet before walking towards the door. Its movements were as rigid as the protocol droid back home, despite that one being just as old, if not older. “If you have any further personal inquiries, I suggest you make an attempt to ask him.”

Before Vander could even consider cracking a joke or making some snide comment, R6-3PO turned around. “Follow me. The medical bay is this way.”

He stood and combed his uninjured hand through the mussed hair atop his head. There wasn't any time for a quick run through the refresher. There wasn't any time to change clothes. Hell, he didn't even know if there were clothes for him to change into, considering he hadn't been given the chance to pack a bag.

There wasn't any time to do anything except follow R6-3PO out of the door and lock it behind him.

Despite having just been down the hallway hours before, everything about them felt foreign and strange when he gave a second look around. The sensation was only aided by the fact that this was his new home. Not the Smuggler's Rest, but the _Finalizer_. The hallways were his, in a way, but he wasn't used to them yet. He knew getting acclimated to the ship would take a while. Weeks rather than days. Maybe even months rather than weeks.

In front of him, R6-3PO rattled off as much as it could as they made their way in what he assumed was the direction of the medical bay. He gave names to door numbers, names Vander couldn't absorb quickly enough. They were all sharp Imperial names for sharp First Order officers—Alastair and Piers, Jocasta and Cressida.

Idly, Vander wondered which of the rooms belonged to the man he'd encountered outside of the turbolift. He hoped it was in an awkward location, far away from his post, beside someone he didn't get along with.

At every cross-section, there was a broad rectangular map with the current location and details about the other rooms on the level in a small print. The ship was longer than he expected, and every inch was utilized for one purpose or another.

Eventually, after passing a dozen of the maps, he pinpointed the location of the medical bay. His room was on the other side of the ship, positioned near the stern, while the main medical facility sat closer to the bow.

They would be doing a lot of walking.

Occasionally, a small group of stormtroopers passed in front or alongside them. Even more infrequently, Vander spotted someone in an officer's uniform making their way down the corridor. Only once did he see the dark cloak and mask of a Knight of Ren. He was broad-shouldered and tall and wore a mean looking sniper rifle on his back.

The _Finalizer_ carried enough people to successfully colonize a world. At any given time, thousands upon thousands of people were in transit, moving back and forth between the marked and unmarked rooms, going about First Order business without a care.

And he only knew three of them.

“Where is Kylo Ren's room?” Vander asked suddenly.

He was curious, but the question itself was born from the onset of loneliness he felt at the realization.

“I'm not planning on just showing up or something. It'd be good to know... in case he ever needs me or anything.” R6-3PO turned to look at him, having stopped in the middle of a gesture towards one of the ship's many armories. Vander shook his head, embarrassed. “It's fine. You don't have to tell me.”

“Master Ren's chambers are not far from the meditation suite on Deck 2.”

“Which deck are we on?”

R6-3PO completed his gesture only to point towards the nearby map rather than at the armory. “We are on Deck 3 of five.”

Vander crossed the corridor to get a better look at the map. He hadn't been able to decipher the other maps' finer details, having been swept along by the droid. On closer inspection, he found that the ship was separated into parts. The officers' quarters lay behind them and to their right, spread out over a good portion of the deck. An armory meant for maintaining the officers' blaster pistols could be found to the left. Down even farther was a cluster of medical facilities, physical training rooms, and centers meant for relaxation and diversion. In the very middle was what appeared to be a cafeteria.

“Deck 4 houses both enlisted personnel and the stormtrooper barracks,” R6-3PO explained. “Below that are the hangars. You need only concern yourself with this map for the time being.”

“I've said this before,” he murmured to himself. “But... shit, this ship is huge.”

A soft whirr came from the mechanisms within R6-3PO's black lacquer casing. “The _Finalizer_ is the pride of the First Order. She is nearly twice the size of an _Imperial_ -class Star Destroyer, making her the largest ship the galaxy has seen in recent years. Perhaps ever!”

“Probably ever.” Vander chuckled, fingers carding through his hair. “So... the medical bay, right?”

The droid reared back, and the slender lights above its head glimmered over his frame. “Right you are, sir! We should be there relatively soon. Doctor Rosado will be disappointed if we are late. After all, you were given twelve hours from arrival.”

And after his nap, he only had four hours. He could make it across the _Finalizer_ in four hours, no sweat.

Well, some sweat.

By the time they reached the front of the ship, deep breaths were harder to come by.

Vander felt the pull of exhaustion—both physical and emotional—on each of his limbs. The ship was cold; the air, crisp. He could feel the chill through his shirt, and it clung to the damp skin at the small of his back. Even after eight hours of sleep, it didn't feel like enough. It definitely wasn't enough to do whatever it was this doctor would ask him to do.

Stepping past the sliding doors and into the medical facility, he was greeted with the quiet hum of machines and the strong smell of bacta. Examination tables separated by partitions took up one side of the medbay. On the far wall, three of the dozen bacta tanks were in use. Bodies floated through the gelatinous substance, breathers attached to their mouths, covered in freshly healed wounds and burns.

R6-3PO shuffled into the center of the facility, looking around for the Doctor Rosado he'd spoken about.

“I do apologize for taking so long to arrive,” he said once he spotted them around the corner, hidden by one of the tall privacy curtains. “Master Syl appeared to be exhausted. He fell asleep before I could explain the situation.”

The woman's voice was rich, but not warm.

“Tell _Master Syl_ to find an empty table, and I'll see to him in a moment.”

Before the droid could relay the directions back to him, Vander crossed over to one of the empty examination tables and hopped up onto it, careful to avoid knocking his hand around any more than he already had.

He hated doctors.

Vee was a medic, not a doctor, and he preferred it that way. The icy professionalism of physicians only made him uncomfortable. Plus, they asked too many questions he didn't know the answers to.

A tense few minutes passed before he heard footsteps approaching. They didn't belong to R6-3PO. Rather, they belonged to a dark-skinned woman of average height, with pale eyes and thick natural hair. Along with a no-nonsense expression, she wore a uniform similar to the one officers wore, in white rather than black.

Her eyes moved over the datapad in her arm. “I've been informed that I should refer to you as Vander Syl. Is that correct?”

Vander tapped a hand on the table beside his knee before nodding. “Yeah, Vander Syl. Vander with a 'vee.' S-Y-L.”

“Do you have any pre-existing conditions I should know about?”

“Uhm... no? I'm pretty healthy.” Worrying at his bottom lip, he glanced around the narrow examination room. The curtains were thick and a uniform shade of white, as bright and reflective as the tiled floor and the shining lamps above. “I can't see well in dim lighting, but that's about it.”

A brow rose on her forehead. “Hapan?”

“Apparently.”

Doctor Rosado pursed her lips. “Do you have any history of mental illness?”

Vander blinked once, then twice. “I, uh... Anxiety. I was never officially diagnosed, but my mom said that was what I have. She knows a lot about medicine.” He gripped the edge of the table. “I just have trouble adapting to things. Dealing with a lot of people. Worrying about screwing up.”

“I'll contact you in a few days for a consultation with our on-board psychiatrist. Until then, I urge you to become better acquainted with the vessel. Your 3PO unit will aid you in doing so.” As she spoke, her fingers moved over the datapad, inserting new data and editing what little was readily available. “As of right now, I will run a few tests to gain a more complete understanding of your physiology.”

“What's your name?”

The doctor paused. She seemed more surprised by the question than anything else, but before Vander could worry about whether he'd overstepped a boundary or not, she replied. “Tendra Rosado.” Her lips twisted into a small smile. “Chief medical officer of the _Finalizer_.”

“Vander Syl,” he said in introduction. “I don't have a title. Force-sensitive mess, maybe.”

She laughed. The sound was rich and warm.  


* * *

  
The memory of his last visit to the medbay was fresh in his mind.

Fresh enough for him to grimace behind the safety of his mask as he stepped through the doors.

There was a pain washed an angry blood-red. There was burning, a searing across his face and the spreading wildfire of self-loathing. There was a medicinal fog that rolled over him; it spread through his limbs with every breath, replacing anger and shame with a jarring sense of peace.

Kylo Ren remembered falling asleep with the cold examination table against his back and bandages wrapped tightly around his wounds.

He remembered waking up and reaching for his mask only to find it wasn't there. The mask was on Starkiller base, a sprinkle of dust amid a storm of it. Rosado loaned him one of the replacement breathers to cover most of his face, and he pulled his hood up to shadow the rest.

A comfort. So few things in his life were a comfort.

Now there was a new mask. This time, he wouldn't lose sight of it.

Ren recognized her from behind before looking to the boots dangling off the side of an examination table. He recognized those, too. They were clunky and scuffed, poorly kept. Just like him.

Rosado turned towards the newcomer, schooling her smile into a more professional expression. She was grateful for that reflex upon realizing who stood in front of her. “If you came to check up on him, he's in good health. Given that his hand was properly taken care of soon after it was broken, the fractures will be fully healed in a day or two.”

“Thank the stars for bacta,” Vander muttered, pointedly staring at his cast. “Wouldn't be too much use if I had a bum hand.”

Ren approached. He glanced towards Rosado, eyes lingering over her face for a long moment before giving her an order of, “Leave us.”

The doctor did just that.

Datapad held close to her chest, she disappeared past the tables and behind the curtains. The sounds of diligent work followed soon after. Ren turned his attention towards Vander alone, watching as he observed the same few inches of his cast over and over.

“In a week's time, we will arrive at our next location, a planet called Generis.”

He searched Vander's face for a sign of recognition to find none.

“Another of Skywalker's students was left at one of the planet's few settlements. We intend to find them, as we found you.” He paused, calling back the conversation with Leader Snoke. “It will require some preparation. Once your hand is healed, you will tell R6-3PO to escort you to the meditation suite. There, I will teach you what you need to know.”

Finally, Vander tilted his chin upwards, regarding him with vague confusion. “What's it like? I've never even heard about Generis.”

“The planet is covered in dense jungle. We will likely meet resistance in the form of wildlife as well as New Republic soldiers, which is why your training is crucial.”

“Can I seriously learn enough in just a couple of days?”

Ren let out a breath so slow his voice modulator couldn't pick it up. “There is no way for you to learn everything you need to know in such a short amount of time, but I will teach you to fight in a way that will increase your chances of survival.”

Vander's brows dipped. “Well, that's comforting.”

“You already know how to fight,” Ren said. “I will assist you in honing those skills in order to survive.”

This time, it was Vander who sighed.

“Looking forward to it, then.”

He jumped down from the table before Ren could step away.

Between their sudden, unexpected proximity and whatever blood the doctor took, Vander was forced to take an unsteady step backwards. His movements were too fluid to maintain, and he reached back to brace himself against the table only to be stopped halfway there.

Ren looked down at his hand where it curled tightly into the fabric of Vander's shirt.

He didn't know whether or not he had kept Vander on his feet. Everything might have been fine. He might have grabbed onto the table to steady himself. But reflex drove Ren to reach out, to grab him, to keep him upright.

They both stared at the gloved hand connecting them.

Without a word, Ren pulled away, leaving Vander to reach for the table again.

“The droid will tell you where to go,” he said, curt. “Until then, I suggest you focus on healing.”

Leaving the medbay was easier than entering it.

An unfamiliar feeling pushed him along—a warmth that didn't burn, a frustration that didn't make his teeth ache. He smothered those feelings along with the others, ignoring the whisper of disappointment that seeped into his ears.

Those whispers always sounded like Snoke.

The drowned out feelings were replaced by fear.


	9. Chapter VIII: Pressure

Time passed strangely on the _Finalizer_.

Without a sun or even a sky to tell the time by, Vander found it difficult to remember the hour, much less the day. He slept when he was tired, which was often. When he was hungry, R6-3PO led him to the cafeteria, and he ate little better than military rations from a slender silver tray.

The food didn't bother him. It was the cafeteria itself that was his worst nightmare.

Thousands of strangers sat row after row, occasionally glancing in his direction, wondering who the disheveled civilian idly picking at his meal was. That was only the first day. After that, once the rumors spread, he garnered even more attention. They never spoke to him, only of him. Some whispered. Others held polite conversations with the officer beside them.

It set him on edge. It turned his stomach.

He didn't eat as much as he should have.

On what was confirmed to be the second day, Doctor Rosada contacted him to set up another consultation. He was healthy, couldn't have been healthier, and his hand had healed completely, aided by the bacta both she and Vee had administered to him.

The removal of the cast was a double-edged blade. He had free use of both hands again, but that meant his training with Kylo Ren would begin that afternoon. It took Vander an hour to convince himself the experience wouldn't be horrible. After all, they were going down to a dangerous planet soon. The last thing he wanted to do was die in some jungle because he was wary about spending long periods of time alone with Ren.

Rather than escorting Vander back to his room, R6-3PO took him up the turbolift to Deck 2.

Nerves forced his fingers into his hair, dug them into his pockets, swung them anxiously at his sides. He knew how to fight. Gilt taught him how to use a blaster. Er-Dakk gave him his first lesson with an electrostaff. They were both useful. So, naturally, there wasn't anything for Ren to teach him...

“Hey, I'm not feeling too hot. Can we—”

The turbolift stopped, and the doors slid open.

“Ah, here we are!”

Every corridor was the same on the _Finalizer_. The walls weren't black, Vander realized after staring at them for an extended period of time. They were dark gray, matte, non-reflective. The floors were black, but shiny. The lights were pure white. And they were all the same—long, unadorned, absolute in their austerity.

“The meditation suite is right this way.”

Vander's heart skipped a beat. Not in the whimsical way, but the painful and hurried way. The “I don't want to be here” way.

He followed R6 as the droid made its way down the corridor. Whatever stubbornness thirteen years with his family back on Nar Shaddaa taught him seemed to fade away inside the First Order ship. Struggling against what was happening to him was stupid, and he knew it. As long as he took care of himself and toed the line, everything would be alright.

He wasn't walking to his death; he was walking towards a learning opportunity.

Taking a deep breath, Vander released it slowly.

A learning opportunity.

He'd strolled into worse sectors on Nar Shaddaa for less.

“Given that Master Ren no doubt has a great number of things to teach you, I will remain outside of the meditation suite until you are ready to return to your room,” R6 said, interrupting Vander's rapidly fluctuating train of thought. “Of course, I will still be active, should you need anything during the duration of your training.”

“Thanks.” He stopped short. “How long's it gonna last?”

“I have no way to predict such a thing,” R6 replied, “except to say that it will last as long as Master Ren deems necessary.”

Vander's eyes rolled. “Great.”

“Yes!” The droid's consistent cheerfulness was familiar, at least. If annoying. “It _is_ great, isn't it?”

Upon reaching another cross-section, Vander slowed to look at the map. Every room was labeled and numbered, distinct from the last, pieced together like the most boring puzzle ever. Except for the large empty space in the very center, marked only with 'Meditation.'

Their _you are here_ marker was only one cross-section away.

“So this is it, huh?” Vander gave a low whistle. “Big room. Lots of space.”

“Only Knights of Ren are able to access the meditation suite.” If R6 hadn't been a droid, it might have smiled. “Perhaps Master Ren intends to make you a Knight yourself!”

All Vander could do was laugh. Awkwardly.

“Yeah, no thanks.”

He turned towards the direction they were originally moving in and followed what he knew was the path leading to the meditation suite, all the while wondering if the droid was right. Maybe it knew something. Or maybe it was good at guessing. What would he do if Kylo Ren asked him to join the Knights of Ren?

He would be proper First Order if he did, rather than just someone passing through.

He would be involved in whatever the Knights of Ren did, and he knew they weren't just about saving Loth-cats from trees.

He would be hated by a good portion of the galaxy, feared by strangers, spoken about in hushed whispers.

Vander didn't want any of those things; he just wanted to survive when the shuttle touched down on Generis. And in order to do that, training would be necessary.

Ren wanted to keep him alive. That thought was comforting. It kept his feet moving, kept his face turned towards the meditation chamber, kept him from turning tail and running so fast the droid would never catch him.

When they arrived, R6-3PO inserted the room's code. The doors fell open, revealing a large, open space with a tall ceiling. Racks of weaponry lined the walls—blaster pistols and rifles, vibroswords, dormant lightsabers. At each corner of the room stood a short column above which floated a glowing cube. Two glittered an angry red, while the two others glowed gold. Each of them emitted an unnatural whine.

While he had no idea what they were, Vander felt a spike of interest upon first sight. They were as beautiful as they were strange.

Finally, his eyes settled upon Kylo Ren.

Ren stood with his back to him, one hand raised to alter the switches on the console affixed to the wall.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he moved into the center of the room. The air was clean and crisp. Cold, just like the rest of the ship. The walls were the same dark, matte gray. The lights were an almost-blinding white. Only the floor was different. Instead of slick tile, the surface was textured, bumpy and slightly cushioned.

Rather than beginning the lesson immediately, Ren continued making slight altercations to the chamber.

The first was a shift in temperature. A dewy warmth replaced the chill he'd grown familiar with over the past few days. Vander's brow furrowed. The change wasn't unpleasant, but it did make him wonder just what this suite was capable of.

Then, four translucent tubes descended from the ceiling at all four corners of the room. The shrill hum emanating from the cubes was replaced by silence.

“Choose your weapon.” Ren spoke, but didn't turn to regard him. In the quiet of the room, his voice rose above all else. “For our first day of training, I suggest you pick something you're comfortable with wielding.”

Vander crossed the floor to the nearest weapon rack.

His options were varied enough. He knew how to use some of them and could guess how to use the others. But Ren told him to choose one he felt comfortable with, which meant they would be using them immediately.

Reaching past the lightsabers and the blasters, Vander removed an electrostaff from the rack.

As soon as he made his decision, a vibrosword with a visibly dulled blade shook in the pegs keeping it secure. It rattled around for all of a moment before floating upwards. He stepped back, avoiding the weapon as it hurtled hilt-first in the direction of Ren's outstretched hand.

“When do I learn how to do that?” Vander asked him, laughing.

The room changed again in an instant.

He gasped at the sudden pressure against his limbs. The electrostaff slipped from his loose grip and plummeted to the floor with a _thunk_. He stared at it, blinking, as he struggled to center himself. The heat was one thing. He could deal with heat, with humidity. But this?

Vander bent over as carefully as he could manage. Balancing on his feet with his center of gravity thrown off to such a degree forced him to focus only on keeping himself upright. And then, once his fingers brushed the elongated hilt of the weapon, he curled both hands around it and pulled himself back up. The weight of the weapon was off, too. Heavier than any he'd ever fought with.

Ren turned to face him. Rather than the hood, cape, and thick cortosis-weave chestplate he remembered from Nar Shaddaa, his robes were lighter and less burdensome.

He was lankier than Vander realized, and he seemed utterly unaffected by the gravitational change.

“You'll learn when you stop dropping your weapon.”

“This is gonna be fun,” Vander muttered to himself, lip bitten as he took an unsteady step forward.

As he moved, he became better adjusted to the shift in gravity. The chances of being knocked over with an elbow or even a pointed look were high, but Vander could see himself getting used to this. Eventually.

And Ren watched him, tracking Vander's movements behind his mask in judgmental silence.

“How do you even fight with that mask on?” Vander jerked his chin in Ren's direction. The sudden movement of his head sent a wave of nausea into his stomach and threatened to topple him. Setting his feet apart and planting them into the textured flooring, he spoke again. “Doesn't seem fair, you know? You must have shitty peripheral vision.”

“I see enough,” Ren replied. His voice was as soft as it was resonant. “I see you, trying to distract me or make me doubt what I'm capable of. I see you, barely able to stand.” His gloved fingers curled tight around the hilt of his training blade.

He looked no less imposing without the feral burn of his lightsaber held at his side.

“You think you're disarming, but you can't convince a beast to sheath its fangs.”

Vander's mouth tilted upwards in a sharp smile.

“To be fair, I haven't really tried.”

* * *

  
Kylo Ren loathed arrogance in his opponent.

That smug self-assuredness grated on him, planting seeds of uncertainty among his anger and frustration. They thrived in the soil and shot up like vines. If they could stand to be so nonchalant in opposition of him, if they could believe themselves the sure winner in the face of unknowable power, they were a threat. To themselves as much as to him.

Taking a measured step forward, Ren gripped the hilt of his vibrosword even more tightly, drawing the blade close to his body and grasping it with both hands.

“Less talking,” he warned.

Vander rolled his eyes. “More fighting. Yeah, yeah, I know. We've been over this before.”

He moved more quickly than Ren anticipated, but not nearly fast enough to surprise him.

Ren stepped aside as the weight and momentum of Vander's body sent him hurtling past, rapping him hard across the back with the flat side of his blade. Vander grunted, more from annoyance than pain, then turned just quickly enough to block a second strike with the hilt of his staff.

“No time to get my bearings, huh?”

“If these were the jungles of Generis, you would already be some creature's meal.”

Standing at full height, Vander eyed him as he considered the staff's weight in his hands. Rather than grasping the center of the hilt, he made the decision to space his hands apart, giving him more control over the lengthy weapon. At least that wasn't a mistake.

“We're on a ship. Floating through space.” Vander swished the deactivated ends of the staff. “We've got a few days until we're planetside. Maybe _relaaax_.”

He planned on distracting him.

Ren knew that from the look on his face. His expression remained all seriousness, even as his voice rose and fell in an almost comically fluctuating tone. His usual tone. But he wasn't going to get his way, not when there was a lesson to be had.

Lunging forward, as if unhindered by the room's upturned gravity, Ren didn't give Vander enough time to move aside or even blink before he smacked him hard enough on the shoulder to make the man take in a sharp breath. Once he was past him, he pivoted on his foot and swung the practice blade again. This time, it tapped against the width of Vander's back as he stumbled forward.

Turning around as quickly as he could, Vander held his balance with his staff alone, eyes wide and frown deepening.

“We just started, you _ass_. Gimme a sec.”

“Learn by doing,” Ren told him.

An easy lesson.

Vander removed one hand from his staff to point at him and nearly lost his hold on the weapon in the process. Floundering a bit before regaining his grip, he laughed despite himself. “Look, it's not that easy. I've been doing this for, what? A minute? How long have you been training like this?”

Ren paused, staring at him.

“Thirteen years.”

Thirteen years of grueling training, of lessons taught by a voice inside his head. Thirteen years of high gravity and low gravity, of blistering heat and chilling temperatures. Thirteen years with weapons he didn't understand, odd and unfamiliar in his hands. Thirteen years of dedication and determination. And he'd been recently bested by a scavenger, Force-sensitive or no.

But he couldn't consider the training useless. Those thoughts were forbidden. They were insidious.

You fail. You practice harder.

You don't fail again.

Vander swallowed hard, struggling to maintain eye contact beyond the featureless faceplate of Ren's mask. “You've been doing this since you were—? Shit.”

Ren pressed his lips together. It was easy enough to mistake compassion for another attempt at distraction. So rather than allowing Vander to take him off-guard, he gripped his vibrosword anew and held it pointed in his direction. “I've been doing this for long enough to know that you aren't fit to stand on Generis, much less fight on it.”

A low hum filled the room for all of a moment before dissipating. He felt the telltale press of gravity increase upon his shoulders, watched it twist Vander's face into an even deeper frown.

“Oh, come on!” he shouted. “This is a load of—”

Ren moved. This time, Vander forced himself a step back to avoid a hit to his shoulder. Sheer force of will kept him on his feet after that, balanced precariously on his heels before he threw himself into a return blow. The staff swung with every ounce of power he could put into it, cracking against Ren's forearm.

Vander's victory was a bright flash of pain, and it was short-lived.

The momentum of his body sent him sprawling out onto the ground.

Ren crossed to his sparring partner's fallen form. He stood over him, feet planted firmly on the ground and vibrosword aimed at the exposed nape of his neck.

“That might be impressive,” he said slowly as Vander twisted over onto his back, “if you were a newborn rancor.”

Vander stared past him to the tall ceiling, the whites of his eyes bold against the black of his blown pupils. His cheeks burned a splotchy red, and he chewed on his bottom lip, torn somewhere between frustration and anger and a sick sort of excitement. When he spoke, he smiled. His eyes found Ren's mask again.

“Maybe that's just how I fight,” he said, straining against the pull of the room.

“If that's how you fight, that's how you'll die.”

Stepping away from him, Ren circled around to face him at a distance of a few yards. Vander struggled to get back onto his feet, but in the end, he did. He stood and held his staff firmly in his hands, a determined set to his jaw.

“How good were you at this when you first started?” Vander shot back. A thick brow rose on his forehead, wrinkling the skin.

Ren took the bait and relished in the chew of it. “Better than you are right now.”

Moving was more difficult with the second onset of gravity, but he still moved more quickly than Vander, lashing out with his vibrosword aimed right at the center of his chest. His body followed the blade, and when Vander hefted his staff upwards to block the blow, Ren found himself standing nearly toe-to-toe with him.

Vander grinned the same sharp, confident smile as before. “I'm just getting used to the new digs, is all.”

“I stand by what I said,” Ren replied. He shoved their weapons apart, knocking Vander back a step. “I was more skilled at sixteen than you are now.”

Without a word of snappy response, Vander shoved one end of his electrostaff in the direction of Ren's hip. The blow glanced off the practice blade, and before Ren could jump back, the staff was swinging in the other direction, snapping around to nearly crack against the side of Ren's helmet.

He avoided the blow, side-stepping only to hear the _whoosh_ of air over his head.

Before Vander could chance another attack, Ren reached up and snatched the end of his staff in mid-air.

“Better,” he said, quietly. “But you're still slow.”

“And slow'll get me killed on Generis.” Vander laughed, cheeks dimpling. The hair resting against his forehead was damp with sweat. Every line of tension was gone from his face. “I _know_.”

A boy, almost two years younger than him. A boy, with flyaway brown hair. A boy, carving out a smile on the sullen face of another. A boy, laughing so loudly he interrupts the other students mid-meditation. A boy, disarming.

Memories were a distraction.

Vander himself was a distraction.

In the shadowed safety of his mask, Ren clenched his teeth. His jaw twitched, and he shoved the picture aside, replacing it with the heat and weight of the room, the immediacy of their closeness, the burn of his muscles as they trapped the staff between them.

“Everything on Generis wants to kill you.” Ren spoke, not knowing what else to say.

It was easier to give him a reminder, to repeat the same bit of advice, no matter how worn.

But Vander wasn't interested.

Instead, he asked: “Do you wanna kill me?”

“No,” came Ren's sudden response. His voice was sharper than before, keener than the blade he held in one hand. “Would you rather learn to fight against someone who does?”

“No.” Vander stopped suddenly. His eyes narrowed. “You got somebody on board who wants to kill me?”

The comment hit Ren with a wave of amusement. Biting down on his tongue kept the laugh from escaping him. It left his lips curled at the edges, hidden from sight.

“So few of them know you,” he murmured, releasing the end of Vander's electrotaff only to take a step back and ready his vibrosword again. “I'm sure if you introduced yourself to more of them, we could find someone.”

“Look, I'm not that—”

“Obnoxious?” Ren finished.

“It's! A! Coping! Mechanism!”

He watched as Vander struggled to suppress another smile, ultimately failing.

The back and forth continued for hours.

One or both of them attacked, leaving the other to parry and respond in kind. As time wore on, Vander grew more and more accustomed to moving in high gravity. He lagged behind at times and pushed too hard at others, sending him running forward to regain his balance or falling onto his face. Another mistake, another death, another attempt.

Beneath the dark fabric of his robes, Ren's skin was slick with sweat. It was uncomfortable, but tolerable. Vander was even worse off.

Somewhere along the way, he'd cast aside his jacket, leaving him in a sleeveless shirt that clung to the small of his back. Tendrils of dark hair stuck to the sides of his face. The rest stood in every direction, ruffled by the occasional shake of his head.

And as their bodies grew tired, they became more desperate.

Every attack was parried, and each impact sent them back a step or two. They flew forward again.

Only the sounds of their weapons and their heavy breathing filled the suite.

That was, until Vander spoke up.

“I can't keep doing this,” he said between sharp breaths. His hands slid around the hilt of the staff, sweaty as the rest of him. “It's been... an hour now?”

“Nearly three,” Ren replied.

Vander attempted to whistle, but didn't make a sound. His shoulders slumped. “No wonder.”

“Tomorrow, we'll do this twice.” Moving over to the console on the far wall, Ren made adjustments to the controls. With a rush, the air cooled around them. Soon after, the gravity eased into a normal state, leaving both of them feeling like they could do anything. “Once after you rest and again at the same time as today.”

“Twice?” Vander asked from the direction of a weapon rack. Setting the electrostaff onto the pegs meant to hold it up, he turned to regard Ren with a cocked brow. “You've gotta be kidding me.”

“Twice,” Ren repeated.

His insistence made the younger man roll his eyes for what felt like the tenth time. “Alright. Twice. I can do twice.”

“For your sake, I hope so.”

Without bothering to pick up his jacket, Vander moved for the exit. The droid greeting him in a cheery tone, though Ren was too busy tweaking the room's climate controls to bother listening to every word. The doors closed again, leaving him alone as the temperature shifted from cool to a light chill.

He reached up to the back of his mask, unlatching the clasps as he lowered himself onto the textured floor. Once the helmet sat beside him, Ren took a slow breath. The air was crisp, and it burned his overworked throat, a welcome change from the humid confines of his mask.

Shutting his eyes and smoothing both hands over the wet tangle of his black hair, he settled down onto his feet.

The mission on Generis would be difficult.

There would be casualties.

Kylo Ren hoped Vander would not be one of them. 


	10. Chapter IX: Power of Two Kinds

Vander knew after a number of days how to avoid arousing suspicion from R6 that he was awake.

Lay there, unmoving.

Not moving the morning after training with Kylo Ren was just as easy as he expected. Even the tiniest twitch of his muscles left him biting down hard on his bottom lip, not quite enough to draw blood but close. Then, there was the fact that Ren expected him to be there after he woke up to train again. Two hours, same as the day before, in a humid room, struggling beneath gravity that was nearly twice what he was accustomed to.

Thanks, but no thanks, buddy.

_I can’t believe I just referred to Kylo Ren as ‘buddy.’_

Everything ached. He felt the fatigue down to his bones, a tightness unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Like even just a wave of his arm would snap it clean off.

Vander couldn’t believe he went the whole night without getting a cramp in his legs.

Still, Generis was days off - a giant, globular reminder of his impending doom and why he had to get up, drag himself to the refresher, and make his way back to the meditation chamber. If he didn’t work extra hard, the probability of getting his face torn off by some kind of wild animal was much higher. And then there was the wildlife.

He struggled to pull himself up into a seated position. The moment he did, R6 whirred to enthusiastic life, and Vander felt all desire to be awake drain out of his overworked body.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m up.”

R6 stood at the end of his bed. It stared at Vander, shiny and harmless, and said, “You are looking perfectly coiffed, as usual.”

“Stars,” Vander said, sounding more like a curse than anything else. He raked both hands through his hair, smoothing everything he could back away from his face. “The last thing I need right now is lip from a protocol droid.”

R6 rolled back on its feet and moved in the direction of the nearest lamp.

“You must understand why that is not possible, Master Syl.”

It activated the lamp, and Vander recoiled, lifting an arm to block out the single bulb that was somehow brighter than every sun he’d ever seen. He blinked rapidly in a vain attempt to remember how to see before letting his arm drop. The movement caused a ripple of pain to hit him square in the back.

“A change of clothes has been left inside of the refresher. If the clothing does not fit, I will have another pair sent.” R6 turned to him. The light glistened off of its chassis, making looking directly at it almost impossible. “I will contact Master Ren and tell him you have risen.”

“Thanks,” Vander croaked, not sounding thankful at all.

Standing up was interesting. Never before had so many things hurt all at once, and he’d gotten into and lost his fair share of fights. He won a few, too, but they always hurt. Just not like this. A new pain shot into his legs with every step. Flicking on the light in the refresher left him feeling like his limbs were made of jelly. How was he going to fight in this state? How was he going to do anything but get his ass handed to him by Kylo Ren?

Vander looked around the refresher, which proved to be relatively basic in nature. There was a sanistream and a toilet, along with a chute for waste and a chute for clothes. Not that he trusted anyone on the _Finalizer_ with anything but a uniform.

His clothes were sweaty, but they were his.

After inspecting the set of clothes resting on the sink, Vander looked up. The mirror hanging over a doubled up faucet and sanitizer showed him that R6 had been onto something.

He looked like hell.

Under-eye bags didn’t suit him, and the ones he wore were dark as bruises. He didn’t have enough strength to maintain any kind of posture, not that he ever had any to begin with. And there was enough oil in his hair to power half of Nar Hutta.

_Get in the shower, slimeball._

Once he stripped himself of every scrap of clothing on his back, he paused in the middle of the refresher. The door to his room had opened and closed in the meantime, but he didn’t have the will to put everything back on to ask R6 what happened. So, he dropped everything onto the floor rather than sending it down the chute and climbed into the sanistream, dialing the water to somewhere between warm and scalding.

The moment the water rushed over the backs of his thighs, Vander felt a relief that was nearly strong enough to knock him off of his feet. He braced himself against the walls of the shower, toes curling against the textured floor. Every muscle in his calves seemed to tremble when he did, and he made a silent vow never to curl his toes again.

Never before had he seen a refresher as a paradise. Not until just then. The shower back home spat out whatever sort of water it wanted to, and the toilet only flushed most of the time. During particularly cold days, walking over that floor was like sliding on ice cubes. And during the hot ones, water clung to every slippery surface. He got into more fights in that refresher than in any Sector on Nar Shaddaa, and he lost all of them.

Once he finished with his shower, Vander toweled himself dry and reached for the clothes that had been delivered to him.

Black, black, and more black. Everything on the _Finalizer_ was shiny and black.

Still, he had nothing else to put on. The chances that the Cartel burned the Smuggler’s Rest to the ground were high enough to be a sure thing. Every shirt, every jacket, every perfectly worn pair of jeans — everything was gone. All he had was his Deucalon spaceport uniform, a hazy blue and white against the black of the First Order.

Vander started with the underwear. The waistband was a little tight, but manageable. Next came the straight-legged breeches, which were of a simple enough cut that he couldn’t complain.

In the end, it was the tunic that gave him the most pause. He hated wearing anything around his neck. There was a reason most of his clothes back home left a good portion of his chest exposed, and it wasn’t _all_ about showing off. Why bother wearing something if you can’t breathe in it?

Despite his disappointment with his new clothes, Vander finished putting everything on and turned towards the mirror again. This time, there was a flush to his cheeks from the warmth of the water. This time, his hair was damp and clinging to his forehead and the back of his neck rather than sticking up in every direction.

This time, he looked significantly less like a corpse. An improvement.

R6 stood in the middle of the room when he exited the refresher, holding a familiar bundle in his arms.

“You left your jacket in the meditation suite yesterday afternoon,” it told him, offering the article in its arms as Vander approached. So that was what the door opening was all about. “Master Ren had it laundered and brought here. You may wear it if you are so inclined.”

Vander let go of a huff of breath through his nose.

“Can’t believe I forgot this,” he mumbled as he took the jacket and slipped it on. The scent that clung to the fabric could only be described as ‘clean.’ “Can’t believe he had it washed.”

For a moment, he wondered how ridiculous he must have looked, clad in a full First Order uniform… and a Deucalon spaceport jacket complete with stitched Nar Shaddaa patch and flashy lettering. Maybe this wasn’t tacky. Maybe this was the perfect representation of who he was now.

Vander gave his head a shake, sending a spray of water droplets against R6’s shiny chest.

The droid looked down.

“Whoops.” He wiped the water off with his sleeve. “Sorry.”

The First Order uniform wasn’t him. It fit, but that didn’t mean the well-tailored fabric replaced the thick skin his parents gave him. It suited him, but that didn’t mean he was bound to become an officer or a Knight of Ren. This life was temporary. This life wouldn’t last.

Before long, this uniform would be replaced with something else - something brighter, something hopefully more stylish.

“You can take me to him now,” Vander said. He took a step towards the door, only faltering a little when he felt a dull throb rock up from his thigh. “Just don’t walk so fast, alright?”

R6 took the helm, moving past him and opening the door out into the crisp hallway.

“Of course, Master Syl.”

* * *

The lessons held in Kylo Ren’s four holocrons were as familiar to him as the veins that covered the back of his hands.

One belonged to Jedi Master Lathi Nemta of Dantooine. Another belonged to Esma Stoma of Tython, who called herself Barsen'thor. The holocrons that glowed red held the teachings of a Sith Pureblood named Mûshai and a masked figure Kylo only knew as Darth Mhir.

He reached for those lessons when Leader Snoke’s teachings failed him, though he found himself heading the call of those that glowed a pale gold less frequently in recent days.

The image of Mûshai shone before him, standing tall and proud, broad-shouldered with tendrils hanging from his brow as well as his prominent cheekbones. There was knowledge kept within these holocrons unlike anything that was available to him otherwise. Histories that were lost to time. Truths that were snuffed out by those who ruled. And the gatekeepers to that knowledge were his to learn from.

“What do you wish of me?” Mûshai asked. His tone was commanding, but Kylo did not budge, did not shrink away or flush behind his mask. The Pureblood was a memory. He was data stored in a pyramid-shaped vessel. “You have come to me more often of late, Kylo Ren.”

Kylo knew they had limited time before Vander arrived at the meditation suite. His fingers curled into loose fists.

“The Rakatan attack on Korriban,” he said, slowly, choosing his words carefully so that he wasn’t mistaken. “Tell me what it was like.”

“You have asked me this before.” Mûshai drew himself up higher. Even as a much smaller reflection of his former self, he was imposing in a way that was entirely unlike Snoke. There was violence in the way he presented himself, violence in the way he stood and spoke and stared. “The battle was a slaughter, and the battle killed my king. No amount of power in the Force could fight Rakatan technology.”

The memory of Korriban rose at the back of Kylo’s mind - a dusty red desert, still humming with the Dark side and so different from the world that was there before. Years ago, not long after removing the holocron from its location on Ziost, Kylo asked Mûshai what Korriban was like before the war.

 _Lush,_ he told him. _Full of life, if not beauty._

Hearing a man such as Mûshai speak of the slaughter of his people as he stood by and did nothing drove home a single, resounding fact.

Sometimes, there was nothing to do but submit.

“And now Ziost is also a ruin of war, turned to ash and dust by an Emperor. What is the truth you desire, Kylo Ren?”

He blinked up at him, lips parting to speak, but the question he sought to pose died in his mouth with the sound of the door opening at his back. Instead, he reached for his helmet and tugged the heavy thing over his head.

_What is the truth you desire, Kylo Ren?_

Kylo turned to see Vander and the protocol droid standing just inside of the doorway, which had shut itself the moment they were inside.

Something inside of him twisted at the sight of Vander in the clothes of the First Order. Something bucked and pulled at his guts, refusing to accept this as possible. He did not belong in the all black ensemble. Even with the jacket hanging over his shoulders, the silhouette was all wrong.

He took a deep breath in an attempt to center himself.

The uniform was the first of many steps towards a changed ending. Not of a Jedi’s padawan with flowers caught in the folds of his robes and dimples in his cheeks, but of a Knight of Ren, torn from his happy tale and grounded in the reality they lived in. He could not mourn for Hallam, but he could train Vander to the best of his ability.

“You slept for nearly twelve hours.”

Kylo followed Vander’s stare to the holocron behind him. Rather than explaining what they were, he chose to move to the panel on one of the room’s four walls. A few buttons was all it took for the transparisteel cylinders to descend from the ceiling, cutting off the incessant hum of the holocrons and leaving the room in complete silence. Once they were behind their protective shielding, he adjusted the temperature to mimic Generis’s climate.

He lifted a lightsaber from the rack of weapons, as well as a blaster. “Once we are through here, report to the medbay.”

“Because I’m gonna need to?” Vander asked. While his voice did not tremble, there was markedly less confidence in his words than the day before. Perhaps twelve hours of sleep had not been enough. “Or because you’re worried about me?”

Without a word of warning, Kylo twisted and hurled the lightsaber’s hilt directly at him.

To Vander’s credit, he managed to catch the weapon without activating the blade. And he didn’t complain about the suddenness of it all, either. No more than a whimper as he rubbed over the muscles in his arms. Kylo took that into consideration when activating the increased gravity. Less than before, but still enough to familiarize Vander’s body with what he would expect planetside.

“Are you injured?” Kylo looked over the blaster, over its sleek design and careful construction. “Do you need a day off?”

When he looked to Vander, he saw that the man’s stare had changed, shifting from passive to defiant in the span of a moment and a few words.

“Then, we train, and you will report to the medbay for an examination to see if your lessons are doing more harm than good.”

Back at the door, R6 let itself out. They were left alone again. Vander’s shoulders sagged beneath the gravity he was still unused to, looking at Kylo with eyes that spoke of jealousy and a certain amount of determination. Good.

Rather than waiting for any stray sarcasm Vander might be able to conjure up, Kylo raised the blaster directly at him and fired.

Vander jumped to the side and fumbled with the lightsaber. He thumbed up and down over the hilt, mouth open and alarm in his eyes. “I don’t even know how to turn it on!” The look he gave to Kylo was wide open and terrified. Panicked. “Tell me!”

“Learn,” was Kylo’s simple response. He fired off another shot.

Again and again, Vander ran his hands along the lightsaber’s hilt. And again and again, Kylo shot at him - his shoulders, his stomach, his thighs - and narrowly missed due to the desperation with which Vander scurried out of the way.

Kylo took seven shots until Vander learned.

The pad of his thumb rolled over the activation switch, and with a cry of delight, the floor around his boots glowed with a sudden white light.

“You cannot eclipse me,” Kylo began. He spoke not to stroke his own ego, but to state fact. “I’ve trained with a lightsaber for years. I’ve spent hours with every weapon available to you, both on my own and with partners.” His shoulders rose and so did the blaster. Vander narrowly missed the bolt with a swing of the training lightsaber, which was impressive in and of itself. But this would not save him from each and every foe. “I am training you to survive, not excel. That’ll come later.”

Vander swished the lightsaber in front of him. The heat that emanated from the blade was nothing compared to his own saber. While the weapon was capable of burning, maiming anyone with it would require skill as well as patience. The same could be said for his blaster pistol.

“Do you think I will?” Vander asked him, glancing up from the shadowy figure he drew onto the floor with the light from the saber. “Or are you just trying to stay positive?”

Kylo gave a huff of laughter that his mask only barely picked up. In the meditation chamber, the sound echoed unpleasantly in his ears.

“You have potential.”

Vander’s brows rose, as if he hadn’t been expecting the compliment, and Kylo shot at him again with a sudden enough bolt to be a learning experience. The bolt burned into the thigh of his breeches, exposing a circle of flesh. If not for the lightsaber in his hand, Vander might have thrown them up into the air.

He gave Kylo no warning before rushing forward, saber held high before he swung down with as much power as he could manage. No matter how sore or how tired he was, Vander still moved quickly enough to be surprising. That gave him something of an advantage. Impulsive people rarely lived long, but those who acted without being fettered by tactics sometimes got lucky.

The riposte came when Kylo lifted his blaster pistol with an impact that sent a couple of tiny sparks flying. If the weapon in Vander’s hand had been real, the pistol would have been split into two pieces.

Movement drew them together, but didn’t immediately draw them apart.

Vander looked up at him and smiled.

“I’ve got a hell of a lot more than that, buddy.”

Startled and completely thrown, Kylo Ren smiled behind the safety of his mask.

* * *

Staying upright took everything Vander had left in him.

He longed for the tough mattress back in his room, for the company of R6 and the hum of the ship. Inside of the meditation suite was an immense silence, almost oppressive in nature. Even the sounds they made were muffled, as if they did not completely belong to them.

More than that, he wanted to step inside of the sanistream and never step out again.

Stubbornness kept him from acknowledging his necessary trip to the medbay to see Dr. Rosado. He knew there was nothing voluntary about it. If Ren found out he hadn’t listened to orders, he had no idea what would happen in a few hours when they had to train again. Nothing good, he wagered. Nothing good, and everything exhausting.

“I need to stop,” Vander wheezed, moving to rest his hands on his knees as he hunched over. “There’s… no way… I can… keep going.”

The reminder that he still held the practice lightsaber kept him from following through. He deactivated the hilt and dropped the thing onto the floor before curling over himself in earnest, fingers grapsing into the breeches that clung to his thighs from sweat.

“Push yourself.”

Vander snapped his eyes up to Ren’s mask. “I have been!”

Half of him expected another shot from the blaster pistol, forcing him into action. But the shot never came. Ren stood there, staring down at him, waiting for some kind of confirmation that he was capable of taking another step.

He wasn’t.

“Push harder,” Ren told him.

“I. Can’t.” Vander stared him down with as much will as he could muster, even as everything else drained out of him. “I’m done. We’ve been at this for two hours!”

“One.”

Vander gaped. He blinked at him and gave his head a shake. “What?”

“We’ve been training for one hour.”

“Are you kidding me?” Suddenly, Vander felt like he’d been cheated by the passing of time. And in the same instance, he felt pitiful. Just the day before, he’d gone for two and been strong enough to walk out of the meditation chamber without a limp. “All that, and it was just an hour?”

With a flick of his wrist, Ren pulled the lightsaber hilt into his hand from the floor in front of Vander’s boots. He returned both of their weapons to the rack before he finally spoke.

“It will take time to get used to this,” he said. “Realistically, you will need—”

“Years of training,” Vander finished for him, his shoulders sinking even as Ren adjusted the room’s gravity to something more familiar and manageable. “Right. You mentioned that.”

One of Ren’s hands curled, not quite a fist but close. Very close.

The corners of Vander’s vision swam. Twelve hours of sleep had done nothing for him. All he had was enough juice to make it through some of a lesson, part of his combat practice. There was nothing impressive about that. Then again, there was nothing impressive about him that Kylo Ren didn’t have in spades.

He just wanted to sleep.

“When do I get other lessons?” Vander asked him, eager to pull away from the subject at hand. “When are you gonna teach me about the Force? Maybe I’ll actually be alright at that. It isn’t the same as swinging something around for hours on end, right?”

Ren moved as if doubled gravity still held him down.

There was a weight to every stiff swing of his arms, every stride, every new step. And when he stopped right in front of him, Vander could hear him breathing through the voice modulator on his helmet.

“Force abilities require untold amounts of concentration,” he began. “Finding inner strength takes so much more out of you than this.”

Vander tilted his chin upwards to look him right in the faceplate.

But there was no shred of defiance left in him.

There was no fight.

“You need this.” Ren gestured towards the room around them with a tight sweep of his arm — to the weapons, to the damned panel on the wall, to the smears of sweat on the floor beneath their feet. “Before you are worthy or even capable of what else I can teach you, you need this.”

“I’m so tired of not being…”

Vander let go of a frustrated sound in his throat before stretching himself upwards again. He didn’t want to finish the sentence. He didn’t want to talk or be there in the sticky heat and the quiet. All he wanted was to get cleaned up, see the doctor, and sleep. For one hour, for four, for eight — the details didn’t matter to him, just the location.

“No, fine. You’re right. I’m not ready.” The taut lines of Ren’s body loosened, bit by bit, but Vander didn’t know why. “But I’ll be back today.”

Pulling on his Deucalon spaceport jacket, he turned, and he left Kylo Ren standing in the center of the meditation suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to thank everyone who's read _In the Ripe and Ruin_ in the past almost-two years, even though it's unfinished and seemingly abandoned, even though it's led by an original character. Your love and support really has meant a lot to me. The world, actually. I know it's been a while. (Understatement of the century, right?) But I'm ready to pick this back up. I'm ready to continue Vander and Kylo's story.
> 
> So yeah. Much love. Much much much love. ♡


	11. Chapter X: A Hollow Sound

Vander was alone, which wasn’t really shocking. Everyone in the cafeteria usually kept to themselves, though they remained pieced together by flock. Officers sat with officers and none of them looked particularly happy about the fact. Stormtroopers sat with their helmets removed, their armor glistening in the pristine white light overhead. Knights of Ren sat with other Knights, figures clad in shades of black.

Except for today.

Today, Briayl placed her tray beside Vander’s and sat down.

“R6 is looking everywhere for you,” she said before cutting her first bite of wheat meal with her spoon. The dulled edge of the utensil sliced easily through the bar of mush, but not nearly as easily as her teeth did. “He has a message from Kylo.” Her thick brows peaked high on her forehead, and she leaned in a little closer, her voice lowering to a conspiring whisper. “Is that what you’re calling him now, or?”

“I don’t call him anything.” Vander drew a meaningless design into his own wheat bar, which remained uneaten. Of everything on his silver tray, there was only one item that was half-gone: a dense cube of meat that was made up of half a day’s necessary protein for a Knight of Ren. “In fact, I go to any length I can to make sure I don’t have to.”

Briayl laughed and took another large bite of her meal.

That was the difference between her and Vander.

She loved using names. Full names, nicknames, first names - didn’t matter. There was nothing she liked better than wrapping her lips around a name and watching the person she spoke to react to those few syllables. In the beginning, Kylo Ren refused to be referred to as anything but Kylo Ren. Now, things were different. He was more comfortable around his Knights, and she used that to her advantage.

If he had to pick a favorite, she had no doubt in her mind that it would be her.

Until Vander joined up, at least.

“I wonder what the message is,” Briayl mused before passing her broad tongue along the concave surface of her spoon. She could tell from the way he curled over his tray that Vander was pointedly ignoring her. Not that he could, really, not with her sitting right beside him. “Maybe he wants another training lesson. Or maybe you’re going down to Generis a day early. Maybe you pissed him off? I’ve heard that duels were big in the days of the old Empire, especially between Force-users.”

Vander leaned more heavily on his arms, the muscles in his back gone tight under the thin black synthsilk of his uniform. He took a large bite of his wheat meal, cheeks puffing when he realized what a terrible idea that was.

Once he choked the bite down, he looked at her, his oddly colored eyes narrowed.

“Are you just here to poke at me? Because I’m starting to think you don’t do much out of the kindness of your heart.”

Briayl snorted. “Of course I’m here to poke at you.”

She took another bite, just as large as the one he took, and did not budge at the flavor.

There were sets of eyes all around them. Some where curious. Others seemed bored. There were one or two pairs that looked positively hostile for whatever reason. She caught the gaze of her fellow Knights with a tight and not at all genuine smile.

“How do you like the _Finalizer_?” Briayl asked him. She passed her spoon through a jellied substance that tasted vaguely of honey melon. Vaguely. “Because everyone here seems to really like you. Or do they hate you?”

Vander sighed heavily and shrugged, still looking as if he was halfway between turning to stone and snapping into two.

“I’m just something interesting to look at and talk about. They’ll probably get bored.” He glanced at Briayl, his brow furrowing. “Right?”

Briayl sucked on her spoon. Things were like this back when the Knights of Ren followed Kylo Ren aboard the vessel. They were above the rank and file. They were untouchable. That made them something of a hot commodity around the water taps.

“Oh, they get bored,” she muttered. “Then, they get comfortable enough to feel like they can start ordering you around. That continues right up until one of you takes a scattergun to the back of an officer’s head because you didn’t like the tone he was using.”

Vander’s expression took a turn to the horrified, and Briayl held her hands up, spoon still clutched in her curled fingers.

“Do you see me using a scattergun? That was Kordath. Nobody talks to Kordath anymore.”

Briayl pointed her spoon in the direction of an almost empty table. On the far side of it sat Kordath Ren, with his heavy jaw and broad shoulders and a scattergun holstered at the small of his back.

“But, seriously, you need to find your droid,” she said as her eyes skimmed over another table and another line of onlookers. No one really cared to mind their own business on a ship like the _Finalizer_. Everyone had to know everything to protect themselves and the First Order. Only those who failed to keep their ears and eyes opened were overlooked for promotions, unable to quite grasp at that upper tier without stepping over those beside them.

Her attention shifted to Vander again, and she smiled, one of her cheeks dimpling. “Before you make the poor thing short out.”

“I haven’t…” Vander looked down at his tray and his meal. “I’m not gonna eat this anyway. You want it?”

The bridge of Briayl’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Why would anyone eat more of this than they needed to? Honestly.”

* * *

Finding a R6 was damn near impossible.

There were plenty of protocol droids walking the hallways of the _Finalizer_ , and they all looked like R6. The only difference was that none of them were looking for him with an urgent message from Kylo Ren, one that Kylo Ren probably thought he was ignoring. Blood rushed in his ears, heating up every inch of his face and leaving him a splotchy red wreck. When he got onto the turbolift up to deck two, he fumbled uselessly at the controls while a stormtrooper watched him with a critical eye. There was no winning the game of good first impressions, not when your name was Vander Syl.

An hour passed before he saw a frantic droid turn a corner right ahead of him. The moment they saw each other, Vander and R6 picked up speed before stopping in the middle of an intersection. Only one of them was out of breath.

“What did you need to tell me?” Vander panted.

Four and a half days of almost nonstop training, and he was still terribly out of shape.

“Master Ren requires your presence on…” The droid paused. It looked around, as if figuring out its heading, before finishing his statement. “… this deck.”

Vander nodded over and over, already moving off in a familiar direction. “The meditation suite, right?”

R6 turned on its heels and followed him, shaking its shiny head before delivering worrying news. “No, no. Not the meditation suite. Master Ren asks that you meet him in front of the assembly chamber.”

“The… assembly chamber? I didn’t even know a room like that existed!”

They were moving towards the meditation suite, and then they were moving past the meditation suite, deeper towards the _Finalizer_ ’s bow. There was little to no through traffic as they grew closer to their destination, as well as fewer occupied rooms and fewer slivers of bright, white light. The feeling this gave him could be summed up into one word: bad. Creepy might have been more fitting, but the feeling in Vander’s stomach - which had nothing to do with his lunch - was painfully dense.

R6 guided him around one last turn. There, at the end of the hallway and standing before two tall doors was Kylo Ren, clad in his usual head to toe black ensemble, masked and standing with his hands held at his sides.

When he heard their approach, Kylo Ren glanced away from the wall in front of him and turned in their direction.

“Two hours,” he said by way of greeting. “I have waited here for two hours.”

“I was in the caf,” Vander said, not meaning to sound so huffy and defensive right from the beginning. But he did. He did sound huffy and defensive, and he hated it. “The _Finalizer_ ’s a big ship, you know. It’s not like you sent R6 to find me on a pleasure barge.”

Ren drew himself up to his full height. Those few inches always managed to make Vander feel Ewok-sized.

Instead of letting himself feel small, he cleared his throat and asked him, “What do you need me for anyway? You usually give me a few hours before our next training session.”

“I don’t need you.” Ren waved the droid off. The sound of its footsteps faded behind Vander, and just like that, his one true ally was gone. When he spoke again, his voice was slow and thick, as if his words came from between clenched teeth. “You’ve been summoned before Leader Snoke. He wishes to meet you.”

Vander’s heart sank somewhere around his toes.

Snoke wanted to meet him. The Supreme Leader of the First Order, being of unknown origin and the figure behind Kylo Ren and his Knights and everyone else on the _Finalizer_ , wanted to meet him. Vander could think of nothing else in the world he wanted less.

“I… what?” Vander rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “Is he sure?”

Ren reared his head again, leaving Vander to snap his hands up in submission.

“Okay, okay! Fine. I get it.” He smoothed his hands over his tunic, tugging the hem down a little farther over his hips before removing his jacket. “I… I’m going to meet the Supreme Leader.” His hands twisted into an uncomfortable bundle, twining the denym around his fingers and sucking in a deep breath before letting go of it as slowly as he could. Glancing down at the jacket gave him pause. “What do I do with this?”

“I don’t care,” Ren told him. When Vander looked up at him with an entreating expression, he amended his statement with a tight, “Leave it here.”

Vander dropped his jacket onto the floor, stepped over it, and moved towards the two tall doors.

* * *

Kylo stayed back, not outside of the doors but just within them. He watched as Vander made his way down the darkened aisle, leading towards the holoprojection of Supreme Leader Snoke and his simple throne.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t turn around screaming and flee the room. All that the sight of Snoke changed in him was the pace with which he approached.

The room was massive and nearly pitch black, given the projection didn’t give off much light and there were no other sources scattered around the room. Here, there were no motes of dust to interrupt the image set before them. Here, there was only a commanding figure and his haunting face on his throne that made even the tallest and most powerful people feel minuscule.

Once Vander stood before Snoke, the Supreme Leader leaned forward onto the edge of his throne. His movements were ponderous. His hands, light against the arms of his seat as his skeletal fingers curled over their sharp edges. He loomed over Vander in such a way that Kylo wondered what he was thinking, standing at the feet of someone so ghoulish and intimidating. He wondered if he was afraid, or if he felt bolder than before.

Kylo remembered the first time he met Snoke.

Snoke came to him in a Force dream like a specter, taller than anyone he’d ever seen and soft-spoken. He told him truths his parents refused to share. He treated him as if he was worthy of respect, even as a boy. He made turning towards him and confiding in him such a simple task for a child who felt as if he had no heading.

Snoke was different then than he was now. Perhaps to test Vander’s mettle. Perhaps to watch him quake.

“I am told your name is Vander Syl.”

The assembly chamber was massive in size, but Snoke’s words filled the space easily.

Vander shifted on his feet and stared up at him, already unsure of what to do with his hands while standing there in front of the Supreme Leader. They sought out his pockets - front and back, his hips, the back of his neck. Everything he could touch, he touched before finally settling on his hips again, his stance spreading just enough to feel a little more confident.

“It is.” Vander looked small, but didn’t sound it, even in the wake of Snoke’s seemingly omnipresent voice. “I hear you go by ‘Snoke.’”

Stupid.

But Snoke did not budge. He did not bite, even though Kylo knew better than anyone that he had teeth.

“You may call me whatever you wish.” The papery skin around Snoke’s eyes creased as he stared down at them. He knew Snoke to be calculating as well as chilly. He knew him to be worldly and intelligent and wise. He knew him to be a leader, a teacher, and a hand of guidance. And he wondered what he made of Vander Syl, of his would-be apprentice. “You have been brought here so that I may understand you and what paths we may take with your training.”

Kylo moved forward, away from the doors and closer to Vander. He stepped into the reflected light of Snoke’s projection, pale blue soaking into the matte material of his mask. Vander stood in the light, too, his chin tilted up and his mouth pinched into an uncomfortable pucker.

He would never get used to seeing him like this - older, dressed all in black, standing in the very place he often stood when communicating with the Supreme Leader.

Years could pass, and he would still see him as a foot shorter with a sunburn on his cheeks.

Kylo hated the parts of himself that remembered. They were supposed to be gone, ripped out by his father’s hands as he plummeted to his death on Starkiller base. Sentiment died with Han Solo only to be resuscitated weeks later by Hallam, by Vander, by a boy he swore was dead and a man who was a stranger.

“So…” Vander looked up at Snoke. The corner of his mouth twitched with a failed smirk, and his fingers curled into the synthsilk bunched at his hips. “What do you think?”

Snoke shifted his gaze from Vander to Kylo, and Vander snapped his head to the side, no doubt surprised to see him there.

“How do you think we should proceed?”

Kylo cleared his throat and took a step forward. His robes curled around his legs, and the fabric of his own tunic tightened over his chest when he folded his arms. “Vander has proved himself capable, at the very least.” The man at his side made an affronted sound in his throat. “He requires extensive training with lightsabers given his inexperience with them, but he excels with both blasters and electrostaffs.”

“He will have a lightsaber,” Snoke said. He shifted on his throne, pulling himself farther upright to combat his poor posture. “If he is to be your apprentice, he will have a lightsaber. You will instruct him in crafting one properly.”

Vander did not protest. Neither did Kylo, despite the feeling of failure that welled inside of him.

“Once your mission on Generis is through, you will take him to Ilum.”

Kylo pushed past the anger he felt at the slight and bowed his head. “Of course, Supreme Leader.”

But Snoke was not finished.

“You will begin teaching him how to manipulate the Force while you are planetside.” The moment Kylo stepped forward again as if to protest, Snoke raised a single finger and stopped him in his tracks. His desire to fight died in his chest, extinguished with a breath. “Efficiency in combat is an important tool, but he does not have time to spend years honing every skill imaginable. I taught you everything I know. So too will you teach him.”

He nodded to himself, his eyes shifting from Kylo to Vander and back to Kylo. There was no way of knowing what he was thinking about. Only once had Kylo reached out to probe into his mind; it was a mistake dearly paid for and one he did not make a second time.

“I fear your strengths will never mirror those of your teacher,” Snoke told Vander when his eyes finally settled upon him. There was no fear in his voice. There was so little emotion in his words that all one could do was listen and hope to properly decipher their meaning. “But you will have other means to outstrip him, Vander Syl. You will manipulate the Force in ways countless Force-users have only dreamed of and few have mastered.”

Kylo remembered everything Snoke ever said to him. He remembered the first signs of anger, the looks of disappointment, the congratulations and the pride. He remembered the first time Snoke reached deep inside of him to see perfection in the Force, a balance unlike any he had ever seen.

With Vander, his words were different.

They were calculated and measured. They were the words of a leader rather than a caretaker.

“How do you know that?” Vander asked.

Questioning the unknowable was a mistake. Another Kylo learned not to make.

“I do not measure your potential in the ways you can fight,” Snoke told him. He continued even when Kylo expected him to stop due to Vander’s impertinence. Or was it not impertinence to ask for proof? “Your survival is crucial. Your martial training will aid you in that. But I can see something inside of you, something that was locked away with your stolen memories. Recovering those skills will rest upon your shoulders.”

Kylo watched as Vander’s chest rose and fell more quickly than before. It was as if the pressure solidified in that moment, weighing upon him in a way he was unused to.

When he spoke, the only word that came to him was a quiet, “Oh.”

The sound trembled in his mouth, carved of its confidence, hollowed out by the gravity of their path and their days to come.

“You will be leaving along with General Hux and his stormtroopers for Generis today.” As Snoke spoke, Kylo heard the ending in his voice. The conversation was nearly over. There was little the Supreme Leader had left to say now that Vander was suitably informed of his future with the First Order. “You will meet with them in the docking bay within the hour.”

The projection faded slowly, leaving the both of them in dark and in quiet. He could hear Vander’s labored breathing, could hear him turn and leave on quick feet.

There had been no fear in Snoke’s voice, but there was fear in Vander Syl.

* * *

15.00.

Kylo Ren and his “apprentice” were meant to join them by the top of the hour. Hux stared at the time with his brow lowered into an annoyed line to match the downward turn of his mouth. Whether or not they were still in talks with Supreme Leader Snoke, they were late, and they were wasting everyone’s time.

Four squads of stormtroopers stood in perfect lines outside of the two Atmospheric Assault Landers they would take to Generis’s southern pole. Between the twin ships was Kylo Ren’s Upsilon-class shuttle.

The troopers stood completely still and remained split into pristine lines, despite having been standing there for the better part of half an hour.

Waiting for Kylo Ren to arrive twisted his nerves. Knotted them.

There was a mission waiting to be launched that was more important than routing Luke Skywalker and taking on another apprentice.

Snatching Hiridiu crystals from the hands of the New Republic and its allies was necessary. It was crucial. Having that extended reach of communications would give them another advantage in this war against the Resistance. Whatever it was that Kylo Ren and his apprentice had in mind could never be as important as his own task and the tasks of his men. Crystals and soldiers and whatever else he could gain from plundering the mines of Generis was more likely to bear fruit than bringing on another of Skywalker’s abandoned children.

Hux’s nostrils flared.

Talk around Docking Bay A-6 grew in volume and fervor, if only a little, and Hux knew that Kylo Ren had stepped out of the turbolift on the far side of the room. Still, they were late. Regardless of whether or not their missions were time sensitive, punctuality was one of many strengths the Supreme Leader never instilled into his favorite.

Alongside him strode his apprentice. He was smaller than Hux expected. The top of his head barely reached Ren’s shoulder, if you didn’t pay any mind to his ridiculous hairstyle. And even though he struggled to keep up with his Master, there was something about his gait that reminded Hux of where the newcomer spent so many of his formative years.

Vander Syl had the loping, uneven walk of a smuggler.

“You’re late,” Hux said the moment Ren was within earshot. He curled one gloved hand tighter around the other wrist. “You were expected before fifteen hundred hours.”

Ren’s response was as curt as it was dismissive. “Take that up with Leader Snoke.”

He swept past Hux without so much as a look. It was Vander Syl who glanced back at him, brow raised, before turning to Ren with an easily heard, “Is that Hux? I didn’t think he’d be ginger.”

Warmth spread into Hux’s ears before seeping into his thin cheeks just after. Neither of them were worth his time or worth any argument, so he fell into action instead, calling out for the stormtrooper captains to give their orders. They responded in kind, and two groups of twenty armor-clad troopers marched up the ramps of the AALs.

That was when Hux saw that Ren and his apprentice were not bringing along any of their own.

Were they going alone? Surely, they realized the dangers of a planet like Generis. Ren was given the same information as he was, but he was a foolish and impulsive—

Ren snapped his head towards Hux, and the general’s thoughts quieted. Even that show of power did not stop him from walking up to them both. They stopped outside of the shuttle’s ramp, their mostly one-sided conversation trailing off into nothing once he arrived.

Vander looked at him. His gaze was unsettling. Asymmetrical in a way that left him feeling ill-at-ease. Or perhaps the blame for that could be laid upon Ren’s shoulders, given the man’s incapability of looking at him without expelling some sort of oppressive aura.

“Take a fireteam,” Hux offered. “Four men. That is the least you can do. Leader Snoke likely expects you back alive.”

Ren stared at him so intensely that Hux could feel his eyes from behind the mask. The surface wasn’t nearly as shiny as the one he clung to before, but the look he gave was still as dangerous, as violent as he remembered.

“Do you not remember what happened last time?” Ren asked. “I’ll only get them killed.”

With that, the Master of the Knights of Ren turned and made his way up the ramp and into his shuttle. His apprentice let out a low whistle before rushing up behind him.

Hux stood there, staring, as the ramp retracted and the vessel came to life.

* * *

\- END **ARC I:** RETRIEVAL -


	12. Arc II: Miasmal

_**NOTABLE CHARACTERS**_  
( _listed alphabetically_ )

 **Alimar Swanfow;** Cantina co-owner (human male)  
**Armitage Hux;**  General of the First Order (human male)  
**Briayl Ren;** Knight of Ren (human female)  
**Chimmi Lunfa;** Resistance major (Mirialan female)  
**Darshe;** miner and nuisance (human female)  
**Emmset Ren;** Knight of Ren (human male)  
**FN-1188 (”Doubles”);** Stormtrooper (human female)  
**FN-4160 (”Maneater”);** Stormtrooper (human male)  
**Kylo Ren;** Master of the Knights of Ren (human male)  
**Lyndren Teshal;** Colonel of the First Order (human female)  
**Markai Swanfow;** Cantina co-owner (human female)  
**Vander Syl;** Former padawan of Luke Skywalker (Hapan male)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody! I just wanted to send out a shoutout to everyone who has continued to read this after my long absences. You're all the reason why I'm still here, writing this fic, two years later. I never thought I'd see the beginning of Arc II, much less have the entire thing plotted out down to the letter. Imagine that, right?
> 
> But, anyway, onto business.
> 
> In the Ripe and Ruin is officially, 100% an AU, given where I'm planning on going with the fic in the long-term and how much it diverges from the plot of **The Last Jedi.** Luke's plotline is different, as is Kylo's and Snoke's and Hux's and Phasma's. Everyone's story turns down a different path, and I'm actually pretty excited about that, no matter how much I enjoyed the movie. 
> 
> There will be minor spoilers as we go ahead, but only if you stand on your head and squint. Otherwise, this is a story of what might have been. This is a different timeline. 
> 
> And, as always, thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter XI: Quelled

The last time Vander climbed upon Kylo’s Upsilon-class command shuttle, they were with Phasma, with Briayl, with a stormtrooper. Now, they were alone, as they so often were these days, and Vander couldn’t find the ability to sit still within himself no matter how hard he looked.

He paced along the textured rubber train that ran between the rows of twenty empty seats, only stopping for a moment to hold onto something when they lifted off of the ground.

His nerves could be blamed entirely on Kylo. They were borne from his constant reminders of the threats that lay on the planet’s surface. Generis wanted to kill him. Well, the fauna wanted to kill him; the planet wanted to slow him down to make him easier prey. Then, there was the matter of the padawan, another in a short line of people he should remember but didn’t. There was nothing more frustrating than forgetting a face, or forgetting a name, the whisper of recognition at the tip of your tongue, the sinking coil of self-loathing when nothing came.

Sometimes, he stared at Kylo and his broad shoulders and his ridiculous mask, and he felt a twinge of something he couldn’t quite place, like brushing his fingers over a rope that was just beginning to fray.

Vander twisted around on his boots and stared straight ahead just as the shuttle cleared the Finalizer’s forcefield, sending them out into the space surrounding Generis. Seeing a planet come into view rather than moving away from the surface was dizzying. His stomach bobbed awkwardly, and he was forced to curl his toes in his boots to stay stable.

Generis was all blue and green with puffs of cloud-white. After spending his entire life on Nar Shaddaa, a certain amount of awe rose up at the back of his throat.

He’d seen planets like this in holovids, read about them and learned their names, but seeing one like this left him bereft of words. Watching the colors grow and sharpen into definite, recognizable shapes in the viewport at the front of the vessel made him feel like a little kid. Not enough to actually get a verbal response out of him, but enough to put a sparkle in his eyes as Kylo brought them in closer.

“Do you really think something that beautiful is gonna kill me?” Vander found himself asking.

Kylo did not respond at first, focused on the switches and meters in front of him rather than the man at his back. He handled them with the confidence of a tried and tested pilot. After a while, though, he muttered a quiet, “You will see,” without turning around.

As they began to approach the planet’s surface, the shuttle was wracked with turbulence. Vander clutched at the back of the pilot’s chair as the dampeners lurched into effect, bringing them downward without incident and without becoming a ball of fire visible from the ground below.

All around them, the sky became a shade of azure for as far as the eye could see, sprouting the occasional puff of creamy cloud to break up the brilliance of the blue. And beneath them, the shapes of green darkened and grew detailed enough to see the masses of trees rising far beyond what Vander knew must be normal. Not unlike the clouds, the odd spark of color gave the rainforests dimension. Strange purple and orange and white leaves intermingled with the green, and among them, giant red spires of wood that stretched above them all, leafless and curled at the very tips.

“You haven’t told me much about Generis,” Vander said, absently, his fingers still curled into the cushion at the back of the pilot’s seat. “Just that it’s gonna kill me. Are there seasons? Where are we dropping down?” He chewed over his bottom lip, crouching a little to watch the clouds as the shuttle dipped beneath them. They were strangely shaped and lined with gold, like something out of a story. “I should probably know something about what we’re actually doing down here.”

“The padawan will likely be in Generis’s largest established city.” Kylo moved them around one of the red spires with such ease that Vander’s stomach didn’t bob or twist. “Khita. Population two hundred.”

Vander let out a low whistle. He pulled his hands away from the seat in order to stand at Kylo’s right hand side, rising onto the balls of his feet in order to get a better look at what was below. Between the cracks in the canopy of trees, he saw water, rushing and white-tipped. He caught glimpses of flora at ground-level, flashes of pink and sunshine yellow.

The shuttle dipped closer to the trees. Vander saw Kylo tilt his head down to look at the monitor in front of him that was actively scanning the ground for a place to land.

“We will take a speeder,” he continued. There was a distracted air to his voice, the words dragging on a little longer than Vander recognized as normal for him. And, always, the hollow hum of his mask. “I will tell you more on our approach to the city.”

Vander wet his bottom lip.

“But… really, is it gonna be that bad?”

The question led Kylo deeper into distraction. He swiveled his head to look at the man at his side rather than at his back. His gloves squeaked as he wrapped his hands tighter around the shuttle’s steering wheel. “Do you want an assurance that you will be safe?”

Vander’s brow twitched upwards. “Would you be lying through your teeth if you gave me one?”

“Yes.”

Defeat pulled Vander forward, sagging his shoulders and leaving him wordless again. There was no budging Kylo when he got like this, when he no longer wished to speak on a subject no matter how much someone pressed. So he gave up. He rested his hands on the console in front of him and stared ahead, not looking away from the trees flying past even when the monitor gave a string of warning beeps.

A clearing came into view not long after.

In the very center of the clearing was a pool of water fed from the south, serene save for the rippling around the mouth of the creek. All around that lake stood trees with bark of blue and brown and pale gray, and the ground around their trunks was littered with multi-colored leaves.

Between those trees were bushes bursting with flowers he had never seen before. To him, they were nameless clusters of varying shapes and sizes and colors. His eyes ached looking at some of them, but others continually drew his attention. One sprawling fern looked to be dripping blue Rattataki blood rather than blooms; the lengthy golden stamens were the only proof that the drops were a thing of nature.

Awe moved under the surface of Vander’s skin, shifting his expression from annoyance and concern to something infinitely softer. “Oh… wow.”

“Eloquent.”

“Stuff it, Ren.”

Vander pulled away from the console and moved towards the back of the shuttle, eager to get things started, eager to be on their way. There was so much potential past the treeline. Maybe they would pull this off without a hitch. Maybe he would die. Things could go either way.

The moment the ship settled down onto the ground and the dampeners eased, the craft shuddered violently. Vander nearly dropped right there, knocked off of his feet by the sudden rocking of the shuttle and the onslaught of the planet’s natural gravity.

“Are you -” He whipped around. Kylo hadn’t moved. “Did you do that on purpose?”

The Master of the Knights of Ren stood in one graceful motion once he opened the shuttle’s back hatch and let down the ramp. If the increased gravity made him uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. “Of course not.”

Vander rolled his eyes and made a second attempt at exiting the vessel. His legs threatened to turn as he took to the ramp, watery knees feeling as if they were going to explode from the pressure. This was going to take some getting used to, but he expected that. Somehow, knowing that a flick of a switch couldn’t turn it all of and put things right made the situation that much worse.

Once he was on stable - springy, somewhat saturated - ground Vander gave his surroundings another look and the first smell.

The sharp scent of wilderness was unlike anything he could remember breathing before that moment. It clung to the humid air, sticking to his nose and mouth and lungs with every breath - the mixture of life and decay, flourishing flowers and leaves trodden upon and trees both upturned and rotting.

Then there were the sounds.

A chorus of almost metallic-sounding insects rose at a distance, giving an edge to the burbling creek not far away. Farther away than the insects, a threatening whoop was followed by the chattering cry of an avian something.

Any anxiety that he might have felt, facing a dark and potentially life-threatening unknown melted away at the sights that rose from the ground all around him. Generis and Nar Shaddaa weren’t that different. Both places were filled with living things. Both places assaulted the senses in every way imaginable. There was just something richer about the planet he stood on then, something that felt familiar.

He caught the fraying rope in his palm, held its ends together, and took a deep breath.

Behind him, Kylo Ren descended from the shuttle and moved around the craft without sparing a word towards his new apprentice, intent on removing the speeder from its place in the holding cell beneath the shuttle rather than throwing his head back and enjoying his surroundings.

Vander wondered if he could even smell anything through that mask, or if everything tinting the air in one way or another was excised by the filters, leaving him to breathe something less alive.

He heard the speeder come to life and knew it was only a matter of time before they left the shuttle and the beautiful clearing.

The ramp leading down from the shuttle rose as Vander moved around its edges, walking right over to the two-person speeder that was going to bring them to Khita. The speeder was as sleek as you’d expect from the First Order, though it glittered silver in the high midday sun rather than absorbing everything into the matte black he’d gotten used to seeing over the past week.

Kylo sat in the driver’s seat, absorbed in the console rather than looking at him as he approached.

He thumbed over a button on a slender remote Vander hadn’t seen before he pressed inward. Then came a quiet hum before the shuttle disappeared from view, replaced with a shifting veil of glass that reflected its surroundings. Light shone around its edges, giving the shape away to anyone who stood close, but from above, the vessel would be invisible to anyone at a certain height.

“Are you going to get in, or do I have to…” Kylo looked up from the remote to see Vander standing at the open door with his hand on the side of the speeder and an unsure look on his face.

Vander anticipated ridicule, but some kind of vindication soared in his chest when Kylo Ren reached out to him with an open, gloved hand.

There was no hesitation. He grabbed Kylo’s hand and lifted himself into the speeder, which was already hovering a few feet off of the ground with the aid of its repulsorlifts. The seat was comfortable, even with the weight on his shoulders and knees and top of his head, but it was only the warmth that lingered in the curve of his palm that he paid any mind to.

Their hands had touched before, dozens of times during their long training sessions, but now, his grip felt empty.

As if he passed off that fraying rope to Kylo rather than keeping it to himself.

* * *

Twenty men stood split into two perfect rows inside of the Atmospheric Assault Lander. No one made a sound save for the occasional clatter of their armor against the walls of the craft and the constant hum of the ship itself.

General Armitage Hux stood at the head of them all, just behind the pilot, his shoulders pulled taut and his hands held behind his back.

He was the reason they stood quiet. No, silent. He was the reason they pressed their lips together and stared straight ahead at the planet growing to full size right in front of them. He was the reason they ran through orders in their head in quick repetition, memorizing their heading in more detail with every turn of their minds.

The situation inside of the other AAL was exactly the same, given Hux had ordered the pilot to take note of any troublemakers. Given what had happened recently with one of his own, there was no wondering why Hux clamped down even tighter on the stormtroopers’ reins than he had before.

Impressive, considering the handle he had always kept on them.

Whatever reasoning Supreme Leader Snoke had for sending him down to Generis’s forsaken surface was beyond him. He did not ask questions, not to him. That lesson was learned early on, at Kylo Ren’s side. Snoke did not appreciate hesitance. He did not appreciate a sarcastic tone or anyone who prided themselves in being clever.

Hux wondered how much time would pass before the Supreme Leader crushed Vander Syl’s trachea.

As they approached the planet, his nostrils flared. Generis looked like most of the terrestrial planets in the galaxy - blue, green, with swatches of white. There was nothing ground-breaking about what lay beneath them, especially not at the pole, where tendrils of white cloud became a world blanketed in snow.

Along the surface of the snowy dunes were underground heaters, dull gray against the blinding white of the sun-bleached landscape and as large as a two-person speeder.

Otherwise, there was nothing of note to see until they passed over a massive gorge that split the pole in two.

Leading up from the frozen river at the very bottom was a system of winding durasteel stairs. Man-sized openings in the walls of the gorge were dotted among those the stairs, and out of the openings poured the light from within, glowing blue against the shocking pinks and yellows of the ravine itself. Buckets full of hiridiu crystals were being lifted from each and every mine on a pulley system.

All movement below stopped when they spotted the AALs approaching. Not a single shot was fired, which was proof enough for Hux that they were curious rather than aggressive.

Beyond the network of stairs and ladders, situated atop the canyon at some distance was a structure half-hidden by the snow, a building that appeared to be of rebel make and rightly so. From what Hux knew of the Outer Rim Communications Center, the technology was bound to be outdated. Not that that mattered, considering they were only going to strip the mines or destroy them.

The AAL shuddered around them as the pilot slowed a quarter of a mile out from the snow-swept landing zone.

“Expect resistance,” Hux said in a bored tone before turning on his heel and moving down the path between the twenty men. Beneath his wool coat was a blaster pistol. He had no intention of entering into combat himself, but being prepared was encouraged among the First Order. The dyed black fabric licked around his trousers, and when he glanced over his shoulder, his pale cheek brushed against the bemis fur lining the collar. They were very nearly there.

Perhaps this would be a slaughter. Or, perhaps, the miners would give his stormtroopers a fight. Some of them hadn’t seen any action in weeks. Some, months. While they were not encouraged to be bloodthirsty through their training, there were a few that couldn’t be helped.

Hux stood before the vessel’s closed doors and the ramp that would lead them down onto the ground.

“Make sure there are enough miners alive to do their job and ours.” His orders were crisp and unbroken, even as a ripple of nerves caused the hair on his arms to lift. That could be blamed upon the shift of the lander rather than a personal weakness. “I will be disappointed if any of you are felled by backwater men and women equipped with pickaxes.”

The lander touched down. Hux stood firm despite the shift in gravity and the sudden tremor threatening to overtake his knees.

“At attention,” he called out. The pitch and strength of his own voice calmed him.

All twenty stormtroopers turned to face the entrance in the same moment. They each gave an identical sound of understanding before reaching for the blaster rifles at their backs. They moved with rather than against each other, and once again, the only sounds they made came from their armor.

Then came the quiet grind of the vessel’s mechanisms as the doors were pulled open and the crash of the ramp falling to the ground.

Nothing echoed back at them. Everything was far too open for that.

All they heard was the woman leading the second group - Colonel Lyndren Teshal. Her voice proved to be even more strident and authoritative than Hux’s, though he felt no rush of embarrassment at that truth. She was as competent as she was loud, which was what they needed on this mission.

The sound of their arrival went unheeded, at first. What was heard pouring down the side of the ravine was another question entirely. Did the miners only hear them landing, or did they hear every word they said? The orders they shouted, and the sound of bolts ricocheting off metallic surfaces when the fighting began?

Hux hardly knew. He hardly cared.

The only thing that mattered to him was whether or not they would be able to give the Supreme Leader what he wanted.

Stepping down onto the ground with practiced ease, Hux stared into the wind towards the structure not far off, into the darkened windows framed with icicles as long as his forearm. The biting cold whipped at his cheeks, reddening them in an instant, and his hand slipped inside of his coat to grasp his blaster pistol.

The leather of his gloves creaked beneath his grip.

“Clear the communications center,” he said, simply, and twenty stormtroopers poured out of the lander around him.

* * *

Not an hour after departing from the shuttle, they received a call from General Hux with news of their victory.

The number of civilian casualties didn’t arise in the conversation. Vander wagered he didn’t consider the count to be of any consequence. They shared few words and fewer niceties, and the line was cut before Hux even indicated he was through, which he knew the general would find infuriating.

Vander watched the tops of the countless trees fly past, a blur of color broken up by the crown of blue. There was no path between the trees to find their way through. A two-person speeder couldn’t move through such densely packed foliage. So they rose above, where the air was cooler is not any less dense. The feeling of hands pressing down on every inch of him set him ill-at-ease, but he didn’t open his mouth to complain. He just sat there and watched the jungle slip by beneath them.

“Supreme Leader Snoke has made arrangements,” Kylo said out of nowhere, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the speeder and the sounds of the jungle beneath them. Air whistled in his ears, but so did words. “Your name is Mal Darren. You’re from Coruscant, a trader who has never left the world.”

Vander nodded. Mal Darren. Coruscant. Trader, but of what? “Who are you?”

“Janos, your partner.” Kylo gripped at the wheel before clarifying, “Your business partner.”

Nerves bubbled in Vander’s stomach. He folded his arms over his chest, staring down at what he wore, at his First Order uniform. His brow furrowed as he looked up at Kylo again, at his mask, at his black robes. “We don’t look like traders,” he said, his tone gone flat. “Don’t tell me we have disguises in the back.”

Twisting around, Vander popped open the latch that kept the storage secure. The door flung open, pulled by the wind rushing around the speeder, and he lashed out a hand, somehow managing to pull it back into place. Before he closed the latch again, he caught a glimpse of two bulging bags meant to be luggage. There were absolutely disguises inside.

“What about the mask?” he asked as he turned back around and settled into the unbroken leather seat. “Isn’t what you look like some kind of secret?”

“No,” Kylo replied, his patience withering audibly. “I will take off my helmet before we reach Khita.”

The promise held in the statement gave Vander a strange sort of thrill.

After training with him for a week, after learning that Kylo Ren knew him and that they had history together, the idea of finally seeing his face left Vander at a loss. What if he looked like Snoke, underneath it all? What if seeing his face again unlocked everything that was trapped inside of his memories? There was a chance that might happen, right?

Vander let his head fall back against the headrest.

Stars. What if he was hot?

Beside him, Kylo gave an uncomfortable shift in his seat, as if he’d plucked the thoughts right out of his head. But he couldn’t do that without exerting some kind of painful force, could he? There were too many questions, and he knew the answer to maybe four of them.

“Khita is one of the many small cities on Generis known for their wilderness ranches,” Kylo said once the awkwardness stretched on slightly longer than either of them could bear. Vander glanced at him to see that his grip on the wheel had eased, that he stared straight ahead rather than at the console and its bleeping map of the jungle below. “We are traveling there together to visit one of them and see the planet’s most dangerous predators.”

Without warning, the speeder dipped down past the canopy, leaving a trail of green and blue leaves to flutter above their heads after being dislodged from their branches.

Vander’s stomach pitched forward with a rush of vertigo. His hair whipped out of his face, lashing back in a rush of brown, and he let out an involuntary string of curses that eased the tension between them at the very least. While Kylo did not laugh, there was an amusement in how he handled himself as he lowered the speeder to the ground, like someone watching a toddler run into something and fall on its ass.

The dense canopy blocked out most of the sunlight, and in an instant, Vander couldn’t see a damn thing. There was a vague red bleeping to his left and beams of sunlight that warmed the dark ground ahead, but otherwise, there was only blackness. He swallowed back the saliva that flooded his mouth as his stomach turned again. This was unavoidable, of course. Jungles like this one were dark places, even in the middle of the day. It was time to trust the man at the wheel and time to try not to vomit.

Vander shut his useless eyes and curled his hands over the edge of his seat.

The sounds of the jungle rose higher and louder than before, filling him up with the cries and clatters of birds and the forbidding roars of deadlier creatures. Each breath intensified the smell of decay all around them - the scent of animal corpses, of wounds, of rotting greenery.

He let go of a slow breath.

Behind his eyelids, Vander saw a flash of light and felt the speeder rise and fall over an upturned tree. He pressed his lips together as they rushed over a stagnant stream that smelled of nothing but algae. Whatever connection he felt to Generis before was multiplied when he shut his eyes, when he struggled and failed to find a place inside of himself that hadn’t been touched by the jungle.

Everything felt covered in creeping vines, in dirt and leaves and the footprints of animals. The feeling reminded him of long nights spent out and about in Nar Shaddaa, when the smell of booze and speeder fuel sunk into his bones and he felt as if everything he saw would be framed with neon until the end of his life. Those nights, he dragged himself home and crawled beneath his covers and slept until he felt like a person again. Today, he wouldn’t have that option.

And then, they emerged from the line of trees and were met with bright, almost crystalline sunlight.

“That was horrific,” he muttered. “I’ve decided I kinda hate the jungle.”

Kylo slowed the speeder, and Vander finally found the strength within himself to open his eyes. He blinked into the light, his face scrunching with effort. Everything blurred at first, twisting into shapes that were bleary and unfocused. It took minutes of blinking to clear his vision, to remind himself of what he ought to be seeing - planes of grass, a path leading into a city that looked no bigger than a village, dots of gray that would shift and grow into fences the closer they came to Khita.

“I took no pleasure in putting you through that,” Kylo said as the speeder came to a stop. The thrum of the repulsorlifts continued, keeping them in place on the dirt path, and Vander took some small comfort in the subtle and continual loop of rising and falling with the mechanisms inside of the speeder itself. “We must approach on the ground instead of the air.”

“Yeah.” Vander’s voice came from a tight pocket in his throat, rubbing against his gritted teeth with something akin to a whine. Now was the absolute worst time for a panic to set in. He pushed at the feeling with both hands, opening the door at his side and stumbling out of the speeder. He landed on his feet and turned, looking back at Kylo with a pinched expression. The sun sucked, too. It was brighter than anything he’d ever seen. “We should get changed, right?”

The mask Kylo wore bobbed in a nod, and he reached behind him, undoing the latch a second time before tossing Vander the duffel. Then, he reached behind his head and pressed something at the back of that very mask. There was a quiet hiss before the plates shifted, allowing him to remove the thing and set it aside.

In profile, Vanders eyes were drawn to the line of his nose and the way it protruded farther than his lips and his slightly regressed chin. His skin was covered in spots - in beauty marks and moles and the occasional misplaced freckle - and there was a scar that lanced through his cheek and down over his jaw before disappearing into the high collar of his robes.

Kylo brushed a hand back through his coal-black hair, and his heavy brow drew inward in consternation. Or self-consciousness. Vander couldn’t tell.

Not hot. Not in the way he worried he might be, at least.

Intriguing, his mind provided. Different.

Kylo did not give him an opportunity to see him face-on, nor did he look him in the eyes. He opened his own door and climbed out of it, dragging the second bag full of clothes with him. That was when Vander realized he was just standing there, clutching onto the duffel bag with both arms, his chin tucked against the coarse fabric.

He cleared his throat and glanced away, turning his attention to the matter at hand. Crouching, he unzipped the bag and pulled it open, revealing contents unlike what he’d expected. There was a sleeveless tunic sitting at the top, made of a light fabric that would pull the sweat away from his skin. Along with that, a pair of fitted brown trousers and a pair of gloves made of soft, Corellian leather. Once he rifled through the bundle of accessories tucked into the sides, he found a belt that pulled easily over his waist… and his Deucalon spaceport jacket at the bottom of it all.

There were other articles of clothing - tunics and shirts made to withstand the weather, baggier pants to wear during training, multiple pairs of boots. He managed to find a knife among everything, pressed between one of the tunics and a pair of cotton underwear.

Not bad.

Once he got changed into the simpler, less sweltering outfit, Vander packed his things back up and turned his attention back to Kylo Ren. He was still fussing with his clothes, tugging at the sage green collar of his otherwise cream-colored shirt, his hair going ratty at the ends from all the movement.

Seeing him in something other than the sleek black robes and armor he always wore was strange, as if he was no longer the Master of the Knights of Ren but someone younger and more vulnerable. That line of thinking was dangerous; he wasn’t stupid enough to think that made any actual sense. But still, the feeling that radiated off of Kylo was one of insecurity. Perhaps it was some carefully constructed thing to make him lower his guard. Or, maybe he just wasn’t used to being out of the dark, protective shell.

Vander gave his head a shake before tossing his duffel bag into the compartment with limited success.

On any other planet, he would have managed, but on this one, he didn’t have a chance. His body was still getting used to the increased gravity, and throwing something that was already heavy… didn’t turn out so well. The bag’s arc was artless, and it landed halfway onto their seats, luckily just far enough away from the controls to keep the speeder in place.

He climbed up into his seat and shoved the duffel into the storage before settling down.

Mal Darren. Coruscant. Trader, but of what?

Vander glanced towards Kylo Ren’s back. His shoulders seemed even broader out of the black robes, fit to burst out of the casual outfit he’d been given to wear.

“What’s your last name?” he asked.

Kylo’s head snapped to the side, torn away from his annoyed fidgeting by the question. His mouth narrowed into a line, and when he spoke, his voice was so different from the menacing grind of his words through that mask’s many filters that it nearly shocked him. It was softer, quieter, but still spoken from behind gritted teeth. “What do you mean?”

“Janos…?”

Kylo grabbed for his duffel and hoisted it easily into the back. “Mallix,” he said, curt, then he climbed into the driver’s seat.

Once the latch was secure again, they were off, speeding towards Khita without looking back towards the jungle and the darkness and the fear of vulnerability. The beauty disappeared behind them, too, exchanged for a city of browns and sun-baked reds and tall metal fences to keep out the beasts.

“Do you sense anything?” Vander asked him as they approached the city’s limits. “Like, did you sense anything on Nar Shaddaa?”

Kylo gripped at the wheel again and shifted restlessly on his seat. Without his gloves, Vander could see his already pale skin drain of color near his knuckles. “I sensed your presence,” he said. “At the time, I wasn’t sure who you were. I won’t make that mistake again. I shouldn’t have made that mistake to begin with.” Wind tore at his hair, leaving it tangled and damp and pushed away from his broad cheekbones. “As for what I sense, I can feel something. A connection to one of Skywalker’s padawans. Whether they are here or not is to be seen.”

Vander shifted his attention to the city, to the lowering gate that opened Khita to them. They were there.

He was going to help Kylo Ren do to someone else what he did to him only a week prior. He was going to pull someone away from their family and give them to a life of reflective hallways and punishing training and towering holoprojections of Supreme Leader Snoke.

He didn’t know how to feel about that, but he didn’t know how to feel about Kylo Ren, either.


End file.
